


Dating in the Dark

by miraworos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley owns a joke shop, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Gabriel is a complete asshat, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Human AU, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), also sexy times toward the end, an entire temperate rain forest of pining, but otherwise present day, familial gaslighting and emotional abuse mentioned vaguely for the most part, it's as if the COVID never was, its mostly humor I promise, moms aren't exactly bringing their A-game either, negative foster care experience mentioned vaguely and obliquely, probably lots of swears because Crowley, tags will be added as needed, warning for reality-TV-style melodrama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley, owner of a failing joke-shop, and Aziraphale, bookshop proprietor with an overbearing family, meet as contestants on a blind dating show. They form an instant connection as roommates but soon find themselves at odds as they compete to win the top spot, and the favor of the same lady.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 652
Kudos: 451
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Mini Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Top Crowley Library





	1. No

**Author's Note:**

> This story is brought to you by **_Team Matchmakers_** , a.k.a., yours truly, [Scrumptious_Bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrumptious_bastard), and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarek_giverofcookies), for the Do It With Style Mini Bang event! New chapters (most with gorgeous art!) post every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. And of course, all hail and praise be to the incomparable [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/works) for their glorious beta and cheerleading skillz.

“No.”

Crowley wiped the counter down with rather more vigor than was necessary to eradicate a few transient fingerprints.

“We’re broke, Crowley. You can’t say no.”

“No,” Crowley said again, staring Beez dead in the eyes, over the rims of his sunglasses, no less, so they’d know he was fucking serious.

“You’d rather we lose the shop, then?”

Beez was a prat. A business savvy, pragmatic prat who’d been invaluable in helping Crowley’s Calamity Joke Shop limp along as far as it possibly could on its shoe-string budget, but a prat all the same.

Beez also had a terrible habit of being right more often than not, which was very nearly the worst agony Crowley’d ever had to endure. Also, they liked to torture him with _spreadsheets_ when they were feeling particularly cruel. Beez was a hard partner to have, but Crowley had just enough humility to recognize that the niche and nearly obsolete joke shop wouldn’t have stayed afloat this long without them. 

Still. No.

“Crowley. Do you need me to show you the profit-and-loss statement again?”

“Satan flog us, _no_. That’s the last thing I need after paying rents today.”

Crowley tossed the rag into the basically empty cash register and shut it with a bright _ka-ching_ . Crowley was pretty sure the cash register had never earned a _ka-ching_ in its life.

“Look,” Beez said, pinching the bridge of their nose. “It’s down to assets, isn’t it? What do we have of value that we can sell to get us through to the end of the quarter?”

Crowley stared at Beez like they’d grown a bug on top of their head.

“My arse is not an asset!”

Beez folded their arms across their chest and waited.

“It isn’t! And anyway, there’s no guarantee I’d win.”

“You must be joking.”

“ _You_ must be joking!”

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You’re temptation on legs.”

Crowley scoffed. “Says who?”

“Says every emotionally available customer of any gender with even an iota of interest in men.”

“That’s bollocks.”

Beez leaned against the now-clean counter, no doubt to irk Crowley into having to clean it again.

“Handsy bint last week, white jumpsuit with the gold snaps.”

“That was a fluke.”

“Ruddy chap with the ball cap. Couldn’t keep his eyes off your hair.”

“It’s an unusual hue.”

“Upper crust with the three kids. Pinched you right in the—”

“Okay! But that doesn’t mean I’d get anywhere in a dating show. Especially a _blind_ dating show. And isn’t that the one where you have to get hitched in the end?”

“You don’t _have_ to.”

“But if you _don’t_ , you lose out on the money, which is the entire point of the exercise.”

“I’m sure they have a decent crop.”

“A decent _crop?_ ” 

He couldn’t believe Beez would actually suggest something so patently mercenary as Crowley signing up for a dating show, especially a dating show where you couldn’t see your chosen life-mate until the very end. 

_Dating in the Dark_ , Crowley mentally scoffed the name. _More like Dating in the Dark Ages_.

Beez pulled out their phone from their jacket pocket and started tapping away. “If I can just direct your attention to line four of the profit and loss—that’s the one with the red numbers,” they said as they made to hand the phone to Crowley.

Crowley recoiled as if slapped. “Get that bloody thing away from me.”

“It’s not a snake, Crowley,” Beez said with a snort, taking back their phone and mercifully closing the offending app. “It’s a good deal worse, actually.”

“I _know_.”

Crowley sighed heavily, meandering through the nearby tables and shelves, straightening things that didn’t need straightening. 

It had been his dream since primary school to own a joke shop. He’d been in exactly one joke shop besides his own. It had been six thousand years ago now, or felt like it anyway, and it had changed his life. Probably more than a passing coincidence that it was the last place his mum had taken him before abandoning him and his siblings to foster care. Maybe it had all got twisted in his mind, the joke shop and the time before. To where it seemed the only place he knew how to be happy was in a dilapidated retail tenancy that smelled of rat droppings, surrounded by brightly colored advertisements selling mischief by the pound.

“How much did you say the prize money was?” Crowley asked.

“Half a million quid.”

“Jesus.”

“Get a lot of traction with that.”

_Satan's pustulent mangled bollocks..._ Crowley was actually considering this great blasted plan.

“Are you sure there’s no other way?”

Beez shrugged, shoving their hands in their pockets. “You could peddle your arse on a street corner. Would take you a bit longer to get to half a million quid, though.”

Crowley groaned, leaning against the counter with Beez.

“I must be out of my mind.”

* * *

“Have you taken leave of your senses?”

The gramophone-scratch was almost audible, as Gabriel turned his coldly bright gaze on Aziraphale.

“I’m sorry, are you questioning me?” Gabriel asked, his perpetual false smile turning down at the corners.

Aziraphale stuttered to a stop, wringing his hands. The outraged words had burst from his mouth before he’d had the chance to think better of them.

“I apologize for my shocked manner, Gabriel, but you really did take me quite by surprise. You can’t be suggesting what I think you’re implying.”

Gabriel snorted, smoothing the ends of his baby blue scarf into a more even line. “No implications about it, sunshine. It’s an order from Mother herself. She wants you to take your place in the dynasty, and you can’t do that…” Gabriel waved his hand vaguely in front of Aziraphale, as if he'd assessed all of Aziraphale’s life choices and found them lacking, “…like this.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I am comfortable as I am.”  _ Alone with my books _ .

“I’m sure you are. But this isn’t what you were born and bred for, Aziraphale. You must take your place with the rest of us, or suffer Mother’s displeasure.”

Aziraphale shuddered in dread. Their mother wasn’t exactly demonstrative in her love. She doled it out in only the smallest of sips, and only when one of her children had gone above and beyond the call of duty to earn it. Aziraphale had given up trying in primary school. He was an aberration in the Fell family, a throwback, a mistake. Once he’d accepted that, he’d leaned away from the family and been a lot happier for it.

“Forgive me, I really don’t understand—”

“It’s not that difficult, Aziraphale. Mother wants you to return to the fold, though Heaven knows why. I’ve explained to her that you are hopeless. But she won’t let it go. She wants all twelve of us sorted before the year is out. Her words, not mine.”

_ But why? _ Aziraphale wanted to ask but couldn’t. Asking questions wasn’t strictly forbidden, but it was severely frowned upon. And he’d cultivated the habit now of turning questions into points of clarification to avoid harsh reprimand.

“And getting married is an integral part of becoming ‘sorted’?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I’m actually still quite confused. How is this….dating game…supposed to help me accomplish marrying someone?”

“Look. Sunshine.” Gabriel slapped a heavy hand onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I have no doubt that, given all eternity, you might find that one girl who would put up with all your eccentricities. But Mother wants you settled before the end of the year, so we don’t have much time.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, swallowing the twin feelings of umbrage and panic threatening to choke him with each additional word. 

“Trust me,” Gabriel said, lifting his hand to smooth his perfectly coiffed hair. “This is for the best.”

“But surely if women would find it…difficult...to choose me normally, then a heightened situation such as a competition would render it impossible?”

“Well, you’ll be trying your best, won’t you? You wouldn’t want to disappoint Mother.”

The unspoken  _ again _ hung heavy in the air between them.

“In any case, I’ve chosen this particular competition with your deficiencies in mind,” Gabriel continued. “It’s called  _ Dating in the Dark _ . It’s a blind-date sort of thing. The women won’t see you before getting to know you. And while your personality leaves a lot to be desired, at least your soft exterior won’t put them off while they’re getting used to it.”

Aziraphale had almost forgotten the pain Gabriel caused with his rapid-fire insults. The worst part was that Gabriel didn’t even consider them insults. He believed them to be incontrovertible facts, and try as he might, Aziraphale found it near-impossible to hold onto any sense of self-worth in the face of Gabriel’s unshakeable belief in Aziraphale's incompetence. One conversation with Gabriel was enough to put him right back into his too-tight primary-school uniform, sitting at the family dinner table and cringing as the disapproving looks of his mother and siblings reiterated his role as the family scapegoat.

“I very much doubt I’d even be selected by the producers to be on the show,” Aziraphale said in his smallest voice.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve already spoken with the show-runner—woman named Agnes Nutter, of all ridiculous things—and she’s agreed to let you in. Sight unseen.”

Aziraphale’s obsequious smile turned brittle. He hadn’t thought he could possibly feel worse, and yet, he did.

“I don’t suppose you’ve already picked out who I’ll be paired with?”

Gabriel laughed. “Always a jokester, Aziraphale,” he said, wiping an eye. “No one could make us laugh as well as you.”

Aziraphale smiled again, though his heart was a stone in his chest. He couldn’t imagine this latest ploy to make him  _ normal _ would go well. At best, it would be horrifically embarrassing—his private life splashed across television screens throughout the country. At worst… Aziraphale clutched his hands together to prevent their trembling. At worst, he would end up married to some poor woman he could never love, and he wouldn’t have the heart to leave her. 

What a  _ mess _ .

Satisfied that Aziraphale was officially notified of his duty, Gabriel turned to leave.

“I’ll text you the details.” Then as he pulled open the door to the bookshop, he said. “I would hope that you take this task seriously, brother. I would hate for you to lose your beloved bookshop over any…miscommunication.”

Aziraphale held his breath, counting backwards from ten and silently begging Gabriel to just leave already. The barest of head nods was all he could manage.

“Excellent,” Gabriel said with a polished smile that never reached his eyes. “Beautiful day today. Why don’t you get outside for some exercise? Lose the gut?”

Then he left, and Aziraphale gave in to the tsunami of shame he’d been holding in, dropping into the nearest chair and burying his face into his hands. The snarl of pain and humiliation he thought long buried rose again, undead, and sank its fangs into his throat.

A dating show? He couldn’t. He  _ couldn’t _ . 

But when he looked around at his beloved bookshop, trailing fingertips across the cover of a nearby first edition of Keats poetry, he quailed at the thought of outright rebellion. He couldn’t lose the bookshop. Losing it would be like losing his entire soul. And he couldn’t afford to keep it up himself, not on sales alone. Without the regular influx of cash from his family’s estate, he’d be shuttering the shop within a month.

So his choice was between freedom and his soul, with no guarantee that his family would let him keep his soul even were he to sacrifice his freedom to their confounded scheme. Because once Mother had her mind set on something, it was either acquiesce or fall from grace. And one did not survive a fall like that.

Thus was it decided on this, the ninth day of October, in the year of our lord two-thousand-eighteen, that Aziraphale Z. Fell would follow his family’s dictates and choose a wife. 

In a blind dating competition. 

On national television.

May God have mercy on his soul.


	2. Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The contestants arrive at the mansion in which they'll be living. The female contestants will live in one half of the mansion, while the male contestants will live in the other half, and the house is divided in such a way that neither set of contestants ever need run into the other set regardless of entering or leaving the premises or even wandering around the grounds. The first week of the competition happens entirely at the mansion.

“It’s tacky,” Crowley said, looking up at the magazine-cover mansion that was to be his home for the next four weeks.

“So are you. It’s a perfect fit,” Beez replied, nudging him with their elbow.

Crowley made a face at them. “It’s not tacky in a good way. It’s tacky like an oversized billboard on the M25.”

“As in posh and expensive?”

“As in made out of engineered vinyl and a diminishing rate of return.”

“Too late to turn back now,” Beez reminded him. 

Crowley rattled the handle of his suitcase, twitching like he always did when agitated. They were standing in the circle driveway next to the town car that had been sent to pick them up, and Crowley was startled to realise there were cameras literally everywhere on the grounds, filming every possible angle.

“Is it?” Crowley said, already taking a half-step back to the open door of the town car. But Beez blocked his hasty retreat.

“At least get a look at your competition,” they said, jutting their chin in the direction of a few other town cars divesting themselves of passengers. “See if they’re any kind of challenge. It’s easy money, you’ll see.”

One fellow with hay-bale hair and a smell that curdled Crowley’s stomach from a hundred yards off struggled to drag a heavily dented and discolored industrial suitcase up the stairs. He looked like an accountant dressed up like a scarecrow for Halloween.

“That’s one,” Beez said with a self-satisfied smirk.

Another in a dark-blue peacoat hefted a red-leather duffle onto his shoulder. He seemed right enough, but then he turned a ruthless smirk up to the house, like he’d give his right arm--someone’s right arm, anyway--to win. It wasn’t terribly confidence-inducing. 

“Alright, that one may be trouble,” Beez said with a shrug. “Still. If the rest are like that other guy, I’d say they were stacking the deck intentionally in your favor.”

“I’m hardly Satan’s gift to women, B.”

“Shut up,” Beez said. “You look like the illegitimate child of a rockstar and a trickster god, especially in that jacket.”

“I like this jacket,” Crowley said defensively.

Beez rolled their eyes. “The jacket is ridiculous, but somehow it works.”

Crowley grunted in response. Just because he stood a chance of winning didn’t mean he wanted to play.

A bicycle plowed past Beez and Crowley, nearly sideswiping them in its hurry.

“Sorry!” called a harried voice from atop the bicycle. The young man in spectacles riding it gave them a sheepish wave as he crashed into a bush just to the left of the entrance. 

Crowley winced. “Yeah, okay. You may be right.”

They watched as the young man pinwheeled his arms and legs to lever himself out of the foliage, then looked around self-consciously at the cameras recording every leaf stuck in his hair.

“Half a million, Crowley.”

“I know, I know,” Crowley said, not any happier about it than he’d been that morning, dragging his feet over packing whatever clothes he had left without holes in them. “I just…”

A bus pulled up behind them, brakes hissing as the doors squealed open. Odd, that a bus would be stopping on this particular road. It was hardly a main thoroughfare. They were deep in the South Downs, nowhere near a bus line that Crowley knew of.

And then Crowley saw him. A dapper man about his age wearing an old-fashioned outfit, complete with beige waistcoat and pocket watch. He was wearing a tartan bow tie, as well, from the look of it. His white, tousled curls looked softer than goose down. And his coat fell to his knees in a style more fit for a Victorian gentleman than bus rider.

Crowley’s curiosity was piqued from the clothes alone, but then the man turned to look back at the bus driver—to thank him, maybe—and his face lit up with a smile so radiant that Crowley felt the impact of it like a lightning bolt to his nervous system, and the smile wasn’t even for him. Hell’s sake, a smile like that could only come from a literal angel.

“Nnng,” he said without meaning to.

Beez looked where Crowley was looking, but the new arrival had already stopped smiling. In fact, he was marching up to the house now as if towards his own funeral, a grim anxiety in every feature and movement.

“As I said,” Beez reiterated, gesturing at the angel’s retreating back.

Crowley ground his teeth. He didn’t appreciate Beez’s implied insult. 

“What?” Beez asked, sensing Crowley’s change in mood.

“Nothing,” Crowley growled back.

Beez folded their arms. “Well, take that nothing, and go get us a wife.”

Crowley grumbled as he obeyed, hoisting his luggage by its handle and setting off after the other contestants. He had no idea what to expect from this whole blasted farce, but watching the angel in front of him so resolutely walking up to the big oak doors, eyes never straying to either side, never acknowledging a camera, never faltering on his path, Crowley knew one thing for bloody certain:

He was in trouble. Deep trouble.

*

Aziraphale unpacked his clothes into the bureau closest to the window on the far end of the room he would be sharing with another contestant. He was glad that this was the type of reality television program where one had to get to know one’s chosen life-mate without any expectation of…well…physical intimacy. Sharing a room with a competitor instead was further proof that nothing of that…sort…was expected to, nor could even possibly, take place. Thank goodness for small favors.

He thought this for all of five seconds before his roommate walked through the door.

“Oh, dear god,” he said before thinking, staring at the entirely too attractive man who’d just dropped his luggage on the floor next to the bed closest to the door. He looked like Bernini’s sculpture of Aeneas, albeit dressed in a leather jacket and trendy sunglasses.

“Is this bed taken?” the man asked with a rakish grin.

Aziraphale felt his heart stop in his chest. This was bad. This was very, very bad. He’d thought the worst that could happen was succeeding in finding a wife. But this? This was infinitely worse.

“I’m hoping that’s a no?” the man continued while Aziraphale gaped at him. “Because I think the bicycle bloke shacked up with Peacoat, and I am not willing to bunk with the guy who smells like a midden.”

“Of-of course. No, please…” Aziraphale gestured at the bed far too late for politeness.

“Name’s Crowley,” the man said, extending his hand towards Aziraphale.

Aziraphale shook it, naturally, and he smiled up at Crowley’s sunglasses, hoping more than knowing he was meeting the man’s eyes.

“Is that a family name?” Aziraphale inquired, shifting to small talk to keep from any further embarrassing outbursts.

“Crowley?” Crowley said. “I mean, yes, in that it’s my surname. My first name is Anthony. Not that anyone ever calls me that.”

“No one?”

“Not even Beez.”

“Who’s Beez?”

“What?” Crowley said, seeming surprised for a moment before recalibrating. “Oh, my business partner.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, fidgeting while Anth—no, Crowley—put away his clothes. “So what kind of business are you in?”

“Joke shop,” Crowley said with a sideways smile. “And you?”

“Bookshop,” Aziraphale replied automatically. 

“Not that different, really,” Crowley observed.

Aziraphale spluttered. “Not that different? I’ll have you know, I provide volumes that edify and educate, including rare and valuable first editions.”

Crowley snorted and bent to stow his luggage under the bed. “Whatever you say, angel.”

His position behind the bed had muffled his response, and Aziraphale was quite sure he hadn’t heard him correctly.

“What?” he asked.

Crowley was prevented from responding by a crisp knock and the door to their room opening wider.

“We’ve been paged downstairs,” the man no longer in a peacoat said. “Giving us our marching orders, I expect.”

Then he led the way downstairs, Crowley slouching after him and Aziraphale bringing up the rear. He’d almost forgotten what they were there for. 

All five male contestants gathered in the lounge area of the half of the house they were to occupy, settling into uncomfortable, modern couches. Aziraphale preferred furniture with some mileage on it, but he supposed the show had a certain image to maintain.

A man entered soon after, short and somewhat portly with a shiny pate and a shark’s grin. Sandalphon was his name, Aziraphale remembered. He was a television presenter of some renown and their host for the duration of the game.

“Everyone settling in?” he asked as cameras propped on pedestals rolled around them.

There were grunts of assent, to which Aziraphale felt no need to add his own. The cameras made him nervous, though, to be honest, everything about this venture made him nervous. How had he let Gabriel talk him into this? 

The butterflies filling him trebled in number, so he concentrated on his breathing, reminding himself of his bookstore, of the bargain he’d made to keep it. He was certain he’d made the right choice. Everything would be alright. At least, that’s what he had to keep telling himself if he wanted to get through this.

As Sandalphon talked, he pointed toward a digital leaderboard showing each of the contestant’s names in a different color. Aziraphale was happy to note his name appeared at the top of the board in blue. He’d always liked the color blue.

“…with interviews. After three days of interviews, you will choose three potential matches from the five female contestants to add to your leaderboard via the kiosk here in the sitting room. The names of the matches you choose will appear to the right of your own name. Match-names that turn the same color as yours indicate a reciprocal match. In other words, the lady you added to your leaderboard has added your name to her leaderboard as well.

“After this week’s show airs on Saturday night, the viewing audience will text-vote for their favorite couples, whether they are reciprocal matches or not. If someone chooses you for her leaderboard, you are still in the running as a couple, even if you haven’t yet added her to yours, and vice versa. Votes are tabulated the following day, and the results appear on this section of the leaderboard.” 

Sandalphon pointed to the far right section, which was separated from the contestant names portion of the leaderboard.

“The couple with the least amount of viewer votes is struck from matching for the rest of the game. This means that neither person in the least favored match is allowed to add the other to their leaderboard.

“For the remaining three weeks, you’ll go on a 'blind' date with each of your matches, whether they are reciprocal matches or not, though you will get _more_ dates with your reciprocal matches than you will with non-reciprocal matches. You’ll spend time with each other but without seeing each other. As you go, you will evaluate your partner, your chemistry--” Aziraphale shuddered at the lascivious expression with which Sandalphon delivered that line “--and your compatibility. And remember, the viewing audience will vote on their favorite couples after each show airs with the same consequences for the least favorite match.”

 _Fantastic_. Aziraphale had never excelled at popularity contests. That was more his siblings’ area, not his. He was too nebbish and awkward.

“One final note before we get started. After each week, you can add or remove matches from the board at will, though you can only add a match if she still has you on her leaderboard as well. You can remove anyone at any time.”

The other men nod, though Crowley has that smile on again, like he’s laughing at a joke no one else is privy to.

“Any questions so far?”

The young man with glasses raised his hand. “Do we get three choices each week?”

“Ah, yes. Excellent question, young Newton.”

“Newt,” the young man corrected, blushing.

“After week one, you get three choices for your leaderboard. After week two, you get two choices for your leaderboard. After week three, you must narrow your selections down to one. The one you want to marry.”

“How are the winners of the grand prize chosen?” Crowley asked.

“By viewer vote, of course,” Sandalphon said with a greasy smile. “The couple with the most viewer votes while the final episode airs will receive the cash prize at the end of the show. Though we anticipate that at least some of you will be eliminated before then.”

“Eliminated how?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly anxious. Gabriel hadn’t spoken of eliminations.

“If at any point in the competition your pairing is eliminated by virtue of being the viewers’ least favorite couple, _and_ there is no one else in the competition with you on their leaderboard, then you will be sent home. Also, if one member of any of the final couples has popped the proverbial question and the other member of the couple turns them down, then the member of the couple who said no is eliminated from the competition and from eligibility for the grand prize.”

A long and sober silence followed this pronouncement until the man with the haystack hair interjected, “But surely, you can’t air these shows live. Don’t you have to edit out the curse words and such?”

Sandalphon’s smile soured slightly. “No worries on that score, Hastur. Footage from each week is filmed over the first three days. All interviews and dates take place over those three days. The footage is then edited from Thursday through Saturday, and is ready to air Saturday night.”

“Good. Because you better _bleep_ believe I intend to _bleep_ swear at every opportunity.”

Sandalphon leveled a look at Hastur that clearly indicated he very much regretted his choice of career in that moment.

“We will start tomorrow with the blind interviews. Until then, relax, settle in, and get to know your competitors.”

Easier said than done, Aziraphale thought as Sandalphon and the camera crew finally wrapped and left. 

Crowley peeled off to poke around the kitchen, as soon as the cameras were gone while Hastur and…was it Ligur?…turned to each other for conversation. The young Newt, meanwhile, had produced a spiral-bound notebook and was busily scribbling away in it, periodically pushing his glasses back up his long nose.

“Do you prefer whisky or wine, angel?”

Startled, Aziraphale twitched before turning to regard the speaker, one Anthony Crowley, who held a bottle in each hand.

“That depends on which whisky and wine are on offer,” Aziraphale said, taking the wine bottle from Crowley to study the label. Handing it back he said, “Wine will do for me, thank you.”

“Wine coming right up.”

Then he left again to pour himself and Aziraphale a glass each. When he brought it back, Aziraphale mustered up enough courage to ask,

“Why do you call me angel?” before hiding his blush behind a sip. The wine was crisp and delightful, and Aziraphale made an appreciative sound as it coated his palette.

“Ng…mm…what?”

Aziraphale lowered his glass, dropping his gaze as he did so. Apparently, his dodge behind the glass had backfired.

“Why do you call me angel?” he repeated.

“Er…well, I don’t know your name, yet, do I?” 

“Oh! Of course, silly me,” Aziraphale said, extending his hand. “I am Aziraphale Fell. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Crowley shook Aziraphale’s hand, his sardonic grin widening in amusement. “Aziraphale? Name sounds rather angelic. Perhaps I wasn’t far off.”

“Well, I suppose. Mine _is_ a family name, going back centuries to my great-great-great-great-great uncle Friar Aziraphale of the—” Aziraphale cut himself off from the rambling he could feel building in his throat. He always digressed dreadfully when he was nervous. “Never mind, dear boy. I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

Crowley’s cheeks had pinked somewhat, likely due to the wine, of course. “Not bored in the slightest. Big friar-story fan, me.”

Aziraphale found himself snorting into his wine glass. Crowley was a charming devil, no mistake about that.

As they progressed through the conversation and several bottles of wine between them, the topics of discussion ranged ridiculously from childhood shenanigans to the brain sizes of various aquatic mammals. But through all of it, Aziraphale felt a delicious buzz of excitement. Perhaps this entire experience wouldn’t be a complete disaster. Perhaps there was some hope after all.


	3. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Week 1 of the competition launches the contestants into date "conversations" with each other in rooms that separate them by opaque glass. The contestants spend three days getting to know each other through these blind conversations. Through these conversations, contestants will judge compatibility and chemistry with their prospective partners.
> 
> By the end of the week, each contestant will select three matches from the contestants of the opposite gender and add them to their leaderboard. Then after the week's episode airs on Saturday night, viewers will vote for their favorite couple, and the results will be tabulated and shared with the contestants on Sunday, before the second week of dates begins.

“Look, I don’t know how to tell you this, but he was part of one of the most influential bands in the history of alternative music.”

On the other side of the opaque glass wall, Dagon snorted in disgust. Crowley could almost hear her scratching a thick, black line through his name on her checklist of contestants. And he couldn’t blame her. If he believed in sodding checklists, he’d have crossed her name off the second she’d said that Lou Reed was a talentless hack. 

He’d struck out with both conversations so far. He’d spent the first half of the day reliving every bland moment of Michael’s tedious upbringing in excruciating detail. By the time she’d moved on from listing vital records for each member of her family to play-by-play descriptions of her favorite account management lectures at uni, he’d been struggling to stay awake.

Now he was stuck listening to Dagon harp at him about how everything he ever liked was shallow or tasteless or yesterday’s news. The only good thing about day one was that it was almost over. He’d have two conversations the next day, and the last one the day after that. He already couldn’t wait till the end. Once he picked a person or two—and he truly hoped that Dagon and Michael were not the best choices on offer—then he could forget these inane conversations ever happened.

He imagined he was back in his room, curled up on his bed, taking a well deserved nap. He hated getting to know new people. Well, not all new people. Just the stupid ones. In fact, he hadn’t minded getting to know his new roommate at all. 

Crowley smiled at the memory of the man’s affronted scoff when Crowley had claimed kinship with him over being shop proprietors. It was adorable. _He_ was adorable. And ridiculous. He wasn’t at all Crowley’s type, generally speaking. Crowley liked his women soft but firmly in charge, and his men suave and just the right amount of bastard. Hence the reason none of his romantic interests stuck around for long. The women inevitably got fed up with his shortcomings, and the men were never in it for the long haul.

Aziraphale was a curiosity, though. Crowley was usually spot on at reading people, but Aziraphale kept surprising him. Not that he was a romantic interest, of course, but Crowley had to admit he was intrigued, and that was a dangerous road. The last thing he needed was to blow any chance he had at winning the prize money by pursuing a competitor. 

“Are you listening to a word I’ve been saying?” Dagon asked, accusation slicing the words to ribbons. 

“Let’s see, what time is it now?” Crowley looked at his watch. “Yeah, love, not for the last half hour or so.”

“Fuck this,” she hissed, followed by the sweet, muffled sound of the door on her side of the partition slamming shut behind her.

Crowley whistled as he left his own conversation pod and sauntered back to the male contestants’ half of the mansion. He swung by the kitchen, opened the fridge, noticed the utter lack of anything remotely interesting to nosh on, closed the fridge, and meandered upstairs to the room he shared with Aziraphale.

Surprisingly, said roommate was already ensconced in the room’s sole armchair, fusty-looking book in hand, smiling softly to himself as he turned the page.

“Hey, angel. You’re back early.”

“So are you, dear,” Aziraphale said, marking his place with a finger and looking up. “How were your conversations?”

Crowley made a rude noise and a dismissive gesture by way of answer, and flopped down onto his bed. “Yours?”

“Well, the first one was splendid. Anathema is easily as much a book lover as I am, and we spent almost the entire time swapping book recommendations. I think we would be quite compatible.”

Crowley snorted at that. Books. He was probably going to loathe his interview with book-girl.

“What about your second?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, Michael. She was also quite…thorough.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for, angel, is pedantic.”

“Meticulous.”

“Pretentious.”

“Perhaps a trifle trivial.”

“Self-absorbed.”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale said, ceding the battlefield. “Regardless, she wouldn’t be a terrible match. I take it you had the pleasure of her presence this morning?”

“I did. Only I wouldn’t call it pleasure. And maybe not even presence. It seemed like she was talking more to herself than to me.”

That earned him a smile but not _the_ smile. He was still working out how to earn one of those.

“Want to sneak out and get some food?” he asked, fully expecting to be shot down, but hopeful that Aziraphale was as unimpressed by the food selection as he was.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Aziraphale demurred, though Crowley noticed his eyes light up at the mention of comestibles. “It’s against the rules, isn’t it?”

“So?” Crowley said, sliding to the end of the bed and tapping the man’s knee. “Come on, angel. Not like they’ll miss us.”

“I don’t know…”

“Pretty sure Beez and I passed a new sushi restaurant on our way here. Looked pretty posh.”

Aziraphale perked up, though he tried to hide behind a carefully neutral expression.

“Sushi?” he said mildly, eyes innocently downcast as he fidgeted with his shirt cuff. 

Crowley grinned in triumph and got up to grab his wallet. _Temptation accomplished_.

* * *

Much to Aziraphale’s surprise, sneaking out of the house was as simple as walking through the front door, down the driveway, and getting into a rented car. And Crowley was right about the restaurant. The chef presented the most delectable kanpachi uramaki Aziraphale had ever tasted. And the ambience was certainly impressive and romantic. 

Not that romance had been Crowley’s intent tonight, of course. Perhaps it would serve well as a location for the dates portion of the show next week? But Aziraphale dismissed the idea almost the same moment he thought it. This was his and Crowley’s place now, romantic or not. And for reasons he dare not examine too thoroughly, he felt it wouldn’t be right to share it with someone else.

After much wine, sushi, and laughter—wherein Crowley mainly ignored his own food in favor of resting his chin in his hand and watching Aziraphale moan incoherently over the immaculate spread before him—Aziraphale finally worked up the nerve to talk shop, as it were, about the competition.

“Aren’t you worried that you’ve already ruled out two of only five possibilities? What if you like the other three contestants even less than you liked Michael and Dagon?”

Crowley slouched back in his chair, smiling that devilish smile that made Aziraphale’s heart beat ever so slightly faster. Long and lithe, sporting sunglasses and a leather jacket, he looked like a film negative of Aziraphale. More to the point, he looked like trouble, and Aziraphale couldn’t help coveting his easy way with the world, his ability to be himself.

“Nah, I’ll click with one of ‘em, I’m sure.”

“Well, you have to _click_ with three to begin with, don’t forget.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll just pick the other three.”

“The question still stands.”

“The answer is that I’ll pick any three,” Crowley said gulping his wine. “It’s not hard. I only have to like one in the end.”

“But what if…what if you don’t like any of them?” Aziraphale asked, wondering at his own insistence but carrying on anyway.

Crowley didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to be sizing up Aziraphale before answering, and it left Aziraphale wishing for sunglasses of his own to hide behind.

“What are you so worried about, angel? You already like one of them.”

“True,” Aziraphale said, pushing the last of the pickled ginger round his plate with his chopstick. “But she may not like me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone not liking you.”

Aziraphale scoffed and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “And I can’t _imagine_ anyone actually falling for that line.”

Crowley’s grin widened, giving him a wolfish look, as he leaned forward once again, entirely too close for Aziraphale’s comfort.

“You’d be surprised,” he said with a sly wink.

Aziraphale, having an instant, and thankfully internal, panic attack at being the object of that cheeky wink, steered the conversation to safer waters. Crowley seemed content to follow his lead, thank the lord, so the rest of their meal was actually more enjoyable that Aziraphale expected it to be. As night fell around them, and restaurant patrons came and went, Aziraphale lost all track of time. He had nearly forgotten about the contest, until Crowley commented that they probably ought to be heading back.

With a sinking sensation in his chest, Aziraphale paid his portion of the bill and trailed Crowley back through the door and out into the real world. The real world where somehow they were competitors in a television-broadcast dating show.

Once in their requested car, Aziraphale turned to look out the window, not wanting the evening to end, and yet needing it to.

“Don’t get all pensive on me, Aziraphale. It’ll sour your stomach. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the sushi.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Of course I enjoyed the sushi. I’m merely…trying to get my head back in the game.”

“Let it go till at least tomorrow, yeah? Worrying about it tonight won’t get us anywhere.”

“Well, what do you propose? More sneaking about?”

“Why not? I’ll bet you anything Sandalphon has ice cream stashed somewhere in his cottage.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, scandalized. “We are not sneaking into the host’s living quarters to steal his desserts.”

“Spoilsport,” Crowley said with a fond smile that Aziraphale felt all the way to his toes. He couldn’t remember the last time someone smiled at him like that.

The car pulled up just outside the circle driveway to let them out. Crowley jokingly held the door open for Aziraphale, mock bowing as he exited the car. Aziraphale rolled his eyes but enjoyed the attention nonetheless.

“Where have you two been?” 

Sandalphon stood on the edge of the drive in his bathrobe, haloed by the yellow-white lights lining the edge of the drive leading up to the house. 

“Sandalphon, we were just talking about you. All good things, of course."

"You're not allowed to leave the grounds without official approval."

"We just nipped out for a bite of food, no harm done.”

“No harm done?” Sandalphon seethed. “You’ve been gone hours. You could easily have found a way to look up the female contestants online, ruining the entire premise of the show!”

“Not at all,” Crowley crooned soothingly. “We don’t know any of their last names. And anyway, we’re bought into the concept, Aziraphale and I. What benefit would it be to us to risk our shot at true love?”

Aziraphale pasted a smile on his face and nodded in a way that meant he had absolutely no idea how to get out of this mess.

“Not to mention, the grand experiment,” Crowley said, looping his arm over Sandalphon’s shoulders and drawing him back down the driveway toward the house, Aziraphale following them. “Is love really blind? We were discussing it at length over dinner, about how the show is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” 

Without realizing it, Sandalphon had let Crowley lead him right up to the door of his separate cottage on the southeast side of the house. 

“Bottom line is, we only talked about show philosophy, we're back safe and sound, and you have nothing to worry about. Ta.”

Then he swiveled quickly on his heel, grabbed Aziraphale by the wrist, and half dragged him back to the mansion without looking back. Aziraphale offered a little wave over Crowley’s shoulder, though, hoping to demonstrate that he, too, was harmless.

Once the pair of them were safely on the interior side of the house’s front door, they looked at each other…and then burst out laughing simultaneously.

“C-can you believe we got c-caught?” Aziraphale wheezed. “Like we were in bloody short pants.”

Crowley guffawed even louder at that. “He was in… He was in… He was wearing his bathrobe!” 

Together they howled with laughter all the way up the stairs to their room. By the time they had their coats off and hung on hooks in their respective wardrobes, tears were flowing freely from Aziraphale’s eyes and Crowley was hiccuping softly.

“Oh, I can’t remember the last time I passed such a pleasant evening. Thank you, my dear,” he said and smiled shyly at Crowley.

Crowley’s own smile faded as he stared at Aziraphale.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly self-conscious. “Have I got something on my face?” He brushed his chin preemptively. 

“Er…no. No, you’re fine, angel. Just thinking about tomorrow is all.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, still feeling somehow responsible for the sudden sea change. “Are you alright?”

“‘Course, ‘course, yeah. Always fine, I am. Lovely night. Right. Yeah. Me, too.”

“Well, then, I-I suppose I’ll read for a while.”

“Mmhm.”

And that was the last word spoken between them the remainder of the night.

* * *

Crowley woke up the next morning in a foul mood, which was made even worse by the fact that Aziraphale was not there. His bed was already made, pocket watch missing from his bedside table. Crowley threw the covers aside and grumbled out of bed. It was late, but not too late for coffee.

His mood did not improve upon seeing no sign of Aziraphale in the kitchen, nor the sitting room, nor the game room, nor any other room on the ground level. Where had the angel got to? Didn’t feel right, starting his day without saying good morning.

His first conversation was with Anathema, and instantly, Crowley could tell what Aziraphale liked about her. She was straightforward and well spoken and had opinions she didn’t back down from. She also claimed to be a witch, though Crowley expected she meant the Wicca kind of witch rather than the consorting-with-demons kind. 

Regardless, she was a marked improvement over Michael and Dagon from the previous day. The conversation lifted his mood enough that he added her name to his mental checklist of contestants to add to his leaderboard. A rebellious part of his brain imagined another name up there as well, but he smacked that bit of his brain back into submission. 

Eyes on the prize. No distractions.

So it was with some amount of foolish hope that Crowley entered his afternoon conversation. Perhaps things were looking up, even if he hadn’t been able to track down his wayward roommate during lunch, and now he was beginning to suspect the man was intentionally avoiding him.

That hope died quickly as he was greeted at the outset of the conversation with a chipper,

“What’s your sign, love?”

“Uh, Scorpio? I think?” he said, looking at his roster because he couldn’t recall her name. _Tracy_ , it said.

“You think? You don’t know?”

“Not really my thing. When people ask for my sign, I usually say _Stop_.”

Tracy chuckled in a way that felt like a mother patting him indulgently on the head. It wasn’t a bad feeling, exactly, but also not one that ought to be engendered by one’s potential wife.

“I’m a mystic, you know. Divination. I’m asking to determine compatibility. Not just for myself but for the other contestants as well. I must say, I’m curious how this will all play out. Everyone is so unique.”

“Perhaps that was the intent. Choose people who _aren’t_ compatible and see what happens when you dangle cash as an incentive.”

“I like to think there’s more of a plan to it than that.” 

For some inexplicable reason, he had the clearest image in his head of her: ginger wig, copious makeup, flowing robes of bright colors. Why did he think that? Must be someone he saw once and associated with astrology.

“What kind of plan?”

“Well that’s the mystery, dearie.”

He was starting to warm up to her, though her name remained firmly in his NO column.

“Well, who would you match me up with then?” he asked on a lark, thinking to himself, _please don’t say Dagon, please don’t say Dagon_.

“The spirits are telling me that you already know the person, and that you’re resisting your own instincts on the matter.”

“Resisting my instincts? The only instincts I’m resisting are the ones telling me to run far, far away from this whole charade.”

She laughed again. “Don’t let the cameras catch you saying that. You’ll be eliminated before you get a chance to propose.”

The word _propose_ sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine. How was he supposed to be ready to spend the rest of his life with someone he hadn’t even set eyes on, and by one month’s time, no less? It wasn’t normal. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. 

_He needed the money. Divorce was legal. Everything would be okay._

“The only question, really, is whether you'll have the courage to pick the wrong person,” she continued.

Crowley frowned. He must not have heard correctly.

“D’you mean, the right person?”

The silence from the other side of the partition was deep and profound and lasted for several minutes. Had Tracy left? But surely he would have heard the door close behind her if she had.

“Hello?” he called through the opaque glass between them. “Are you there?”

“Oh, hello. I’m terribly sorry. Must have nodded off there for a moment. What did you say your sign was, love?”

Crowley leaned back against the couch with a heavy sigh. He couldn’t take three more weeks of this. He had to make up with Aziraphale or he would go absolutely crackers.

“Capricorn,” he grumbled and tuned her all the way out.


	4. Week 1 Results

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Week 1 of the competition done and dusted, which couple is now at the top of charts? Which couple got the fewest votes and no longer has a chance to match with each other? And what do the contestants have to say about it? Read on to find out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A multitude of thanks go to my lovely artist friend [Scrumptious_Bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrumptious_Bastard/pseuds/Scrumptious_Bastard) for this FABULOUS Leaderboard, breaking down the *cough*overly complicated*cough* game results into a bright, easy-to-read graphic with all the necessary information. <3333

**SANDALPHON** : And that’s this week’s results. We’ll be interviewing you individually to get your reactions to the news. Some of you are likely ecstatic. Some of you may be disappointed. But I hope all of you are galvanized by the overwhelming amount of viewer participation in the voting this week. All of you have quite a bit of support, even if your couple is not currently at the top of the leaderboard. 

Remember, the couple with the lowest number of votes is out of the running, even if the match was reciprocal. You cannot go forward with each other into the dates portion of our show, nor can you choose each other for your leaderboards again. But the good news is that at least one person placed each of you on their leaderboard. Thus, you all have someone to date in the next round, and so no contestant is going home today.

Aziraphale, Anathema, and Michael were the only contestants who had all three of their matches choose them as well. Congratulations! And you, Anathema, are one half of the couple with the most votes. Though, you are also one half of the couple with the fewest votes, so you’ll be moving into the next round with one fewer date than anyone else. Which just goes to demonstrate that this is still anyone’s game.

So shall we get started with the interviews?

**NEWT** : Well, I admit I’m a bit gloomy about it. I think Anathema and I connected quite brilliantly, really. And I suppose she thought so, too, given that we were a reciprocal match. It’s rather unfortunate that we won’t be able to choose each other going forward. I had a thought for our blind date that I think she in particular would enjoy… No, I suppose, you’re right. I could repurpose the idea for one my other matches. I just… I thought we really hit it off.

**LIGUR** : Nah, I’m not surprised. Crowley’s a cheeky bastard. All flash, no substance. But he’s a looker for the cameras and knows it. What surprises me is the bint... Anathema, right? I’d have pegged Dagon for sure. Much less uptight. Sounds like she’s got legs, for one thing. But Anathema? Couldn’t pull that stick out of her arse with a pair of pliers.

**MICHAEL** : I am satisfied with our current ranking. Second place after the first week’s votes is nothing to sniff at. Next week, we will be in first place, of course. My plan for Ligur’s and my tete-a-tete is sure to win over the audience. No, I’d rather not go into detail. I don’t want to give any of my competitors ideas.

**AZIRAPHALE** : Oh, I say. Does the camera need to be quite that close? Yes, I am more than content to be sharing third place with Tracy. She is such a lovely woman to chat with, so very nice and…um…capable. She runs her own business, you know. We had such a lovely, lovely chat. Just tickety-boo… Oh, this and that, family, work, you know. She has a very warm affect, and, um, she…well, she sees to the heart of things in a most peculiar way. Hmm? Well, it’s flattering, of course, that everyone I picked selected me as well...and validating, yes. But it’s a small thing compared to being voted most popular couple. … Yes, I think their choice makes perfect sense. Crowley and Anathema are both so charismatic.

**DAGON** : It’s a crock of  _ bleep _ is what it is. Fourth place? Game must be rigged. Hastur and I run rings around those other fools. We tell it like it is. Give the people what they want, right? Drama. They want a circus. And just listen to the rag I got about Head Girl. Everyone thinks she’s a perfect princess, but when she’s alone she  _ bleep bleep bleep _ her  _ bleep bleeeeep _ . Saw it with my own eyes.

**TRACY** : Thanks, love. I’m so parched under all these lights… Yes, Aziraphale is a sweet little lemon tart. I just want to pinch his little cheeks. He reminds me of my third husband, you know, before he died of diphtheria. Fluke case. Anyway, Aziraphale is a good egg. And I like a good egg. Especially with hollandaise sauce. Who doesn’t love a good hollandaise sauce? … Look at that, now I’m hungry as well.

**HASTUR** : Dagon is the love of my life. Knew it the instant I laid ears on her. No filthy fourth place is going to tell me whether we belong together. Feel it in my gut… Michael? Pfft. Seventh place is too far south to run with. My money’s on Dagon. And my heart, of course.

**ANATHEMA** : Well, naturally, I’m thrilled to be in first place. Crowley…seems…fun. A little distracted at times, maybe, but I imagine that’s due to the barrier. Newt? Newt is sweet, and there was something about him…well, it hardly matters now. I still have Aziraphale and Crowley as options, and they’re both pretty amazing in their own ways. Yes, I had noticed that. Aziraphale and I seem very compatible, but I suppose the audience sees something in Crowley and me, and that is important data to factor in as well.

**URIEL** : Fifth place isn’t ideal, but it’s something to work with. I realize that Crowley and Anathema are reciprocal matches just as Crowley and I are, so it may be a tough nut to crack to break through not only a reciprocal match but such a successful one in terms of viewer votes. But I’m confident that Crowley and I are a better match than Crowley and Anathema. He’s a businessman, and I’m an ad executive who volunteers on various boards and contributes meaningfully to society. She’s a rootless, fly-by-night vagabond with no job, no local family. She’s not a terribly established member of the community. I have faith that before long, Crowley will see that he and I are far more compatible with each other than they are.

  
**CROWLEY** : I’m thrilled. Why wouldn’t I be thrilled? Anathema seems smart and I obviously picked her for a reason. No idea why she picked me. I guess we’ll see how it goes, not counting my chickens and all that. … He did? Charismatic, eh? Huh, interesting. … No, no. It’s not that. I just… Never mind. It’s about compatibility at the end of the day, yeah? We’re making this decision with our heads more than our hearts. … Well, yes. Obviously. But if we were to legitimately consult our hearts, I wonder what they’d say.


	5. First Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game goes into its second week, where the contestants go on dates with the matches they chose from round one, whether the matches were reciprocal or not. Reciprocal matches carry more weight and so therefore are reserved for the romantic evening hours, while non-reciprocal matches are scheduled for the morning or early afternoon hours. 
> 
> Dates were suggested ahead of time by the contestants themselves, and the show has made arrangements with the various venues to keep the contestants from being able to see each other, though they keep in touch via technology such as mobile devices during the dates.
> 
> By the end of this week, each contestant will have to narrow their choices down to two matches, rather than three. And once again, after the week's episode airs on Saturday night, viewers will vote for their favorite couple, and the couple with the least votes are disqualified as a couple.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Aziraphale startled so badly at the voice behind him that he fumbled his plate, and his scrambled eggs slid off onto the floor.

“Drat,” Aziraphale said under his breath as he bent to clean up his ruined breakfast. 

He glanced over his shoulder to see Crowley standing there, thumb tucked into the pocket of his skintight black jeans. Forget breakfast, the man himself looked good enough to eat.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Aziraphale said as he scooped as much egg as he could onto his plate and wiped up the rest with his napkin. “I’m just…I’ve just been exploring the grounds.”

“At night?” came Crowley’s sardonic reply as Aziraphale swept past him to dump the contents of his plate in the bin.

“I like to stargaze,” Aziraphale lied. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie. Stars were pretty. It just wasn’t the reason he’d been staying out till all hours.

“Stargaze,” Crowley said, clearly not believing him.

“Yes. Alpha Centauri is particularly brilliant this time of year.”

“Is that so,” Crowley said, crossing his arms. “You know you can’t see Alpha Centauri from here, don’t you?”

Aziraphale huffed, embarrassed. “Oh, suddenly you’re an astronomer?”

“I actually do like to stargaze, as it happens, and when I do, I like to know what I’m looking at.”

“In any event, I can’t imagine why you’d think I’d be avoiding you.”

“Neither can I. S’why I brought it up.”

Aziraphale paused in the act of washing his plate to glance at his roommate. On the face of it, the man seemed as calm as ever, but if one looked closer, the marks of distress were a little more obvious. Tight shoulders. Nervous tapping. Uncharacteristic frown.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked, beginning to feel concerned. “Did something happen?”

“What? No. I mean. Maybe? I don’t know. You won’t talk to me.”

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. “What do you mean? I’m talking to you right now.”

“Not like—” Crowley cut himself off with an exasperated scoff. “You’re obviously not giving me the silent treatment. But ever since we…” He glanced surreptitiously at Ligur and Hastur having a mumbled conversation in the sitting area and lowered his voice, sliding a step closer to Aziraphale. “... had dinner last week, you’ve been conveniently elsewhere. And when you have been around, you’ve been…I don’t know… Not you.”

“I…” Aziraphale cut himself off. He couldn’t very well tell him the truth. That he’d let himself become distracted by, even attached to, Crowley’s smooth and easy charm, his wit and sagacity, his ridiculous yet arresting affect. It was too much.

Aziraphale had received a call from Gabriel just that morning, before he’d even had a chance to finish his tea. And it had been made clear to him that Gabriel wouldn’t tolerate anything less than Aziraphale’s full cooperation with this scheme. It was as if he’d sensed Aziraphale’s wavering resolve.

“You what, angel?” Crowley interrupted Aziraphale’s anxiety-ridden ruminations, triggering the realization that he’d also caught Aziraphale staring at him. 

Trying to hide the blush that he could feel lighting up his cheeks like a blasted neon sign, he turned resolutely back to washing his dish. Placing it in the drying rack, he said stiffly, 

“We’re competitors, Crowley. We’re competing for the same contestant, even. We can’t be…fraternizing at the same time.”

“Fraternizing?”

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale said, sudden irritation suffusing his voice, an irritation born of worry for the cameras that were always on and rolling. If Gabriel got wind of Aziraphale’s wandering attention… 

“I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel.”

“Well, then, why are you still here?”

He hated himself the instant the words left his lips, but he knew he was right to chase Crowley away before he lost control of himself completely. Crowley obliged him by storming out of the kitchen and through the front door as if a hellhound were at his heels. 

Aziraphale gripped the sink as he watched him go, unable to diffuse the misery sitting heavy under his ribs. He needed to get his act together before his date with Dagon later that morning. He was protecting Crowley as much as himself. At least that’s what he told himself as he dried his hands and abandoned the kitchen to return to their room. 

If he was lucky, he wouldn’t see Crowley at all until it was time for bed. Maybe it would be worth moving in with Hastur for the rest of the month. But he knew he wouldn’t. Not only would sharing a room with a man of such questionable grooming habits be far from pleasant, but Aziraphale knew that after the show was over, he'd never see Crowley again. As fraught as their friendship was now, Aziraphale couldn’t imagine giving up even the dysfunctional little bits he had left.

* * *

Crowley closed his eyes, telling himself that the sick feeling in his stomach wasn’t nerves, and it most certainly wasn’t nerves because of how he’d left things with Aziraphale. It was just the damn boat motion. Bad for the constitution, boats. Almost as bad as horses. Not that he’d had much experience with horses or boats. And he was the better off for it all around.

From the other side of the red curtain, he heard footsteps click-clacking on the deck. An invisible chair scraped back across the floor, and then was drawn in again, closer to the table at which Crowley sat. There were cameras, too. Two on his side, and, Crowley was certain, two on the other side of the curtain as well.

“Are you there already?” Uriel’s voice drifted through the curtain from where she sat hidden at the other end of the table.

“I am,” Crowley answered, leaning his elbows on the table and studying the over-large Battleship game console in front of him. Rather than holes for pegs to sink each ship, there were shot glasses full of liquor where the holes should be. “Interesting choice of date.”

“I’ve always liked the water.”

“And battle?”

“And…competition. I assume you’ve played before?”

“I have, but not this version.”

“The rules are simple. We ask each other questions, and if we answer, it’s considered a ‘miss.’ If we choose not to answer a question, though, we have to take a shot.”

“Which shot do we start with?”

“Whichever one you want. The game is over when one of us ‘sinks’ the other’s battleship, just like in the game.”

“What’s to stop me from picking every ship first before my battleship?”

“You can absolutely choose that if you wish, but the more you drink, the drunker you’ll get, and people’s tongues tend to loosen the more inebriated they are. The trick is to judge your opponent well enough that you get as many of their secrets as possible before you give away too many of your own.”

“Ah. So it’s basically a giant game of chicken.”

“Drunk chicken,” she allowed. “And ladies go first.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Very well. Tell me about your family.”

Crowley blanched. That was a hell of a start.

“That counts as a question?”

“Yes.”

Crowley sighed heavily. No way was he airing all his orphan drama on national television. So he picked up the left-most shot on his aircraft carrier and downed it in one. He made a face and shook his head to clear the sting of alcohol from his nostrils as it burned its way down the back of his throat. 

“Hit,” he said and belched.

She snorted. “And here I thought that’d be an easy one.”

“My turn,” he said. “Tell me about  _ your _ family.”

Uriel laughed, a carefully neutral sound, but she seemed to be genuinely amused. “Touche.”

The next hour went by rather pleasantly, all things considered, with Crowley feeling gradually less angry at the bobbling water the looser his limbs and lips became. She was far too judgmental a person and self-righteous to boot, but he found that he tolerated her company pretty well overall, or at least he did when she was tipsy.

“Your go,” he slurred, feeling smug as he heard her set down another shot glass on her side of the table.

“So what do you find attractive in a partner?”

“Mmph,” he mumbled intelligently as he thought about taking another shot. The floor tilted suddenly, and he couldn’t be sure if it was the boat or his head that had caused it, so he thought he’d better answer. “Depends, I s’pose.”

“On what?”

“On the person, planetary alignment, day of the week, my mood. You know, the usual.”

She snorted at this. “Fine, then, what do you find attractive in a partner at the moment?”

_ White curls _ . “Erm, a good vocabulary?”

“And?”

_ Angelic smile _ . “A, uh, penchant for cuddling?”

“You can do better than that.”

_ Kind-hearted bastard _ . “Oh, sod it.” He took another shot, hissing as it burned its way down. “My turn.”

This wasn’t the first time during their conversation that his thoughts had taken a hard-right back to Aziraphale. In fact, his brain had nearly hijacked his mouth on a couple of occasions, and if he wasn’t careful, Uriel would start to get suspicious. 

Then he reminded himself that there was nothing to be suspicious  _ of _ . There was nothing between him and Aziraphale, the man had made damn sure of that over breakfast.

“...about Aziraphale. He’s your roommate, right?”

“What?”

_ Shit _ . Had he let something slip while he was consciously trying not to let anything slip? How bad off was he? He looked at his board. He’d only the one shot left now. Why was it important that he not drink it again? Oh, right. It was his battleship. Couldn’t lose the battleship.

“About Aziraphale. You said he’d entered the contest last March, but that wasn’t what Dagon told me.”

“What the devil does Dagon know about it?” Crowley asked, irritated. He really did loathe Dagon. 

“Apparently, Aziraphale’s family  _ bought  _ him a spot on the show.”

“What?” Crowley’s brain felt markedly less fuzzy all of a sudden.

“Yeah, if you can believe it. She said that she heard from Sandalphon who heard from the showrunner that Gabriel—that’s Aziraphale’s brother—made a deal with the producer to let Aziraphale on the show because—get this—the family is  _ concerned _ that it’s taking him too long to get married on his own, and that he might be, you know…” She lowered her voice as she said, “...a little more interested in a husband than a wife.” 

Crowley felt the reveal like a kick to his kidneys. He eyed the cameras all around him, recording every word she was saying.

“Anyway, it seems that is very much frowned upon in their family, so as a last-ditch effort, they—”

“S’just rumors,” Crowley interrupted, his voice higher-pitched than normal and loud. “Dagon’s just trying to sow discord. Aziraphale’s ranked higher than she is, that’s all.”

“Is it? Why involve Sandalphon in the lie? It would be easy enough to check.”

“Just stop,” he said abruptly, gripping the edge of the table. “Talk about something else.”

“As you wish,” she said, as if it were no skin off her nose what they talked about. 

But it was very much skin off Crowley’s nose. What if what Dagon had said was true? What if Aziraphale’s family really  _ was _ that wretched, that they’d sign him up for a game show against his will to force him to find a wife. It made him  _ furious _ . Furious enough to throw back the last shot and hang the consequences.

“Actually, you know what?” he said, slamming down the shot glass and standing up. “You sank my battleship.”

“Where are you going?” Uriel asked, the sound of her chair sliding back adding to the cacophony of cameras shifting to follow him out.

“Date’s over,” he growled, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and slamming his way out of the hold of the ship and back up on deck. She’d have to wait till he was off the gangplank and back in the car that had brought him before she came out, but he didn’t much care if she thought him rude. He was too absorbed in his wrath at Aziraphale’s piece-of-shit family to think much about anything else. 

He fumed about it the entire car ride back to the South Downs, which was far enough from where the boat had been moored to give him plenty of time to work himself into a lather about it. 

He had no idea if he should tell Aziraphale that the rumor was circulating, if it would be good for him to know, or if knowing would throw him off his game. In the end, Crowley decided to bury it and pray to all the known gods and maybe the devil himself that the show editors would find juicier segments to air in this week’s show. He didn’t dare pray for what he was beginning to suspect he truly wanted. No god, divine or infernal, held that much power.

* * *

Aziraphale gazed at himself critically in the mirror, adjusting his tartan bow tie for the eighty-third time. 

“You look  _ fine _ , angel. Stop fussing.”

Aziraphale leveled a flat look at his roommate, who was still lounging on his bed, pretending to read a magazine.

“And you? Are you planning on taking Anathema out looking like you’ve just returned from running errands?”

“What’s it matter? She can’t see me anyway.”

Aziraphale sniffed in disdain and turned his attention back to the mirror to manage his hair.

“Where are you taking Tracy?”

“A restaurant,” Aziraphale said. “Not a place you’ve heard of, I’m sure.”

“Try me.”

“The Solarium.” Aziraphale twisted the curls around his fingers, working the product in to make the strands ever so slightly less…fluffy. “It’s an upscale establishment, but targeted to a very specific interest group.” 

“Never heard of it.”

“I am unsurprised. Tracy will love it, no doubt. However, someone of your more modern tastes would hardly find it palatable.”

“I see,” he mumbled as he turned the page.

“Do you know where you’re going with Anathema tonight?”

“No idea. Her pick.”

Aziraphale left off the hair mussing and went back to the tie straightening. It wasn’t that he was nervous. Tracy was a dear, and the online menu for the restaurant looked scrumptious. It was more that he didn’t know what to say to his roommate anymore. The easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed at first had soured into long silences punctuated by stilted conversations. He’d gotten a lot of reading done, but at what cost?

Finally, he sighed at his mirror self and turned to face his roommate.

“Well, I hope you have a lovely evening.”

“No, you don’t. If I have a lovely evening, then it ruins your chances with book-girl.”

Aziraphale hmphed but didn’t correct him. He genuinely wanted Crowley to enjoy himself. But now that he mentioned it, it was good to be reminded that they were on opposite sides. He had an unfortunate tendency of forgetting that.

“Fair point,” Aziraphale said, sliding into his coat. “I’ll see you on the other side, then, I expect.”

“Ta,” Crowley said without looking up.

The subsequent ride to the restaurant was very chafing and disagreeable as Aziraphale wrestled with himself over whether to dwell on his interactions with Crowley in the past few days. On the one hand, he really couldn’t help himself. On the other, he shouldn’t be thinking about Crowley at all, but about how to appease his family without ruining his own happiness. But somehow, like some sort of coin glued to the sidewalk, Crowley kept stubbornly refusing to let go his hold on Aziraphale’s thoughts.

Monday’s and Tuesday’s dates with Dagon, Anathema, and Michael went about as well as could be expected. Dagon’s was a morning date, being that the match was not reciprocal and therefore carried less weight. She’d arranged for them to go fishing in separate coves at a nearby lake, maintaining contact with each other through their mobile devices. It would have been a peaceful location for a conversation, he supposed, if she hadn’t kept harping on him to shut it or he’d scare away the fish. It would have been a bit more tolerable had he thought to bring a book, but he hadn’t wished to appear rude. Apparently, he’d overestimated how much she cared about appearing rude to him.

Anathema had recommended a theater date to the opera, and Aziraphale had been delighted to accommodate. They sat at opposite ends of the theater hall, so there was no chance of them bumping into each other, and they had a nice chat during the breaks and intermissions, again through their mobile devices. He’d gotten a few odd looks, as not only was he talking on his phone the entire time, but a cameraman was clearly following him and taking footage. He’d wondered aloud if she could discern who he was from the dead-giveaway of having a camera following him around, but she’d assured him that she’d been sent to a different floor for intermission, so she couldn’t see him, nor he her. All in all, it had been a delightful evening.

His date with Michael had been less exciting, though it hadn’t gone poorly by any means. They’d had a supper picnic together on different strips of beach equidistant in opposite directions from the mansion. But in the end the wind had been something of a barrier to a proper discussion, and in any event, Michael was more interested in recounting the deeds of her day than in learning very much, if anything, about Aziraphale’s history.

He’d asked Crowley about his dates with Uriel and Michael, but his answers had been limited to single-syllable responses that were more a collection of consonants than actual words. His date with Uriel in particular seemed to merit snarlier reactions than Michael’s, which, frankly, surprised him. He’d have thought Uriel a more compatible match for the man than Michael.

In any case, dwelling had occupied him for the entire length of the drive to the Solarium, so he was even less prepared for his date with Tracy than he’d been for his other dates this week.

When he arrived at the charming restaurant, the valet opened the door for him as if he were someone of actual note. He nodded thanks to the young man as he stepped onto the red carpet leading into the building, the ever-present cameraman set up not two steps to his right to capture his entrance. He hoped he didn’t trip.

The maître d' guided him to a booth in the middle of the restaurant separated in the middle by a black curtain hanging from a temporary frame, so that he and Tracy would be seated next to rather than across from each other. The curtain itself, upon closer inspection, sparkled with silver as if a thousand stars had been captured in its folds. 

“Is that you, Aziraphale?” Tracy asked from the other side of the curtain to his right.

“It is, dear lady. It seems slightly odd that they’d have us sitting next to each other rather than across from each other. Was that intentional, do you think?”

“Um, yes, I do believe so…” she trailed off, an odd note to her voice.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Anathema said from the opposite side of the table from Tracy.

“Anathema? Why are you here?”

“We’ve been asking ourselves that same question for the last five minutes,” she said.

Aziraphale frowned. It was, of course, within bounds of the show’s charter to add a surprise element to the dates. The contestants suggested the venues and activities, but it was up to the show producers to arrange logistics. But what could this mean? Crowley was supposed to be on a date with Anathema right now, not Aziraphale. 

Oh, no. They wouldn’t … 

“Hello, angel,” Crowley said. “Mind if I join you?”

Aziraphale looked up to behold a painfully attractive Crowley in a black blazer, sleeves rolled back, paired with a charcoal waistcoat and skintight leather pants that belled out slightly over shiny boots. A loose red tie was the only spark of color on his person, aside from his fiery hair, which at that moment was pulled back in a careless, yet cool, bun. 

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale said, grouchy that he’d clearly have to spend the rest of the evening glaring over the table at his competition rather than enjoying a nice meal with his date. “Did you know about this earlier?”

“Of course not,” Crowley snapped back as he took the seat across from Aziraphale. “I’d have stopped it, if I’d known. It’s hardly fair, after all.”

“Hardly fair? What is that supposed to mean?”

“You already had your date with book-girl. It’s my turn.”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale argued. “Are you blaming this on  _ me? _ ”

“Excuse me!” Anathema barged in on the conversation. “You call me ‘book-girl’ to each other?”

“It’s not an insult,” Crowley protested, just as Aziraphale chimed in with, “He calls me ‘angel.’ He probably has a nickname for everybody.”

“If I may—” Tracy began, but she was interrupted by Crowley.

“How did this happen, if none of us requested it?”

“I believe I might—” Tracy tried again.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t my idea,” Aziraphale insisted. “I would hate for anyone to think I was being  _ unfair _ . It’s not like I would  _ break the rules _ just to get my own way.”

“Now, hang on a minute. You agreed—”

“Gentlemen!” Tracy shouted from her side of the curtain, effectively silencing the two men. “I believe what happened is that Anathema and Aziraphale simply had the same idea for a restaurant date, and the Powers that Be took advantage of the situation. Now. I know it’s a nasty shock, but it’s hardly the end of the world. We can be adults about it. Am I right?”

Crowley glared at Aziraphale, arms crossed, but he eventually grumbled an assent. Aziraphale quickly followed with his own, “Absolutely. You are quite right, Tracy.”

The atmosphere during the first course was stiffer than the spine of a new book, but the women carried bravely on. They clearly enjoyed one another’s company, despite not fully comprehending nor indulging in the peevish cloud the men’s side of the table seemed to be under. Aziraphale couldn’t even finish his celery-root soup with clementine-relish toast.

By the second course, Aziraphale had become resigned to his fate and had rejoined the conversation with more grace than he’d initially started it with. Crowley was still in a bit of a strop, but even he had at least seemed to acknowledge that their situation was no fault of anyone at the table.

“Are you going to eat that?” Aziraphale asked, pointing to Crowley’s plate in his first attempt to converse with his roommate since the meal began.

Crowley grunted at him and slid the plate of oysters with mignonette ice towards Aziraphale’s side of the table. Aziraphale hummed gratefully at him and scooped a shell from the plate.

After swallowing the oyster, he said, “Must you look like that?”

“Like what?” Crowley asked, frowning.

“Like you just stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine. It’s unsettling.”

“Unsettling? Heaven forbid.”

Aziraphale snorted. “I only mean that it’s hardly fair to the rest of us.”

“That’s the whole point, angel,” he said, gesturing towards the curtain. “They can’t see any of us. And don’t you dare bring up fair with me.”

“Are you implying that  _ I _ have some kind of advantage?”

“Of course, you do! You’re well educated and genteel and unfailingly kind, except when you’re having at me with rude accusations. Any woman in the world would choose you over me.”

“You must be joking.”

“Really. You think I’m joking.” Crowley leaned forwards, but not in a friendly way. “Care to make a wager on that?”

“What kind of wager?”

Crowley thought a moment, and then said, “A secret. If I win, you have to tell me a secret of my choosing. If you win, you can have a secret of mine.”

Aziraphale cast a surreptitious look at the cameras all around them, cataloguing every moment of their conversation. 

“Absolutely not,” he said, gulping in terror. “My secrets are not for sale.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Not here. After. And I promise it won’t be that bad.”

Aziraphale pondered it while he listened to the women trade gossip about London’s New Age community. 

“C’mon, angel. What have you got to lose?”

Aziraphale sighed heavily and nodded. It wasn’t like Crowley would win the wager anyway.

He was about to ask how precisely the man intended to decide the terms of the wager, when Crowley leaned back, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Ladies, if I may interrupt?”

“What is it?” Anathema said, sounding annoyed.

“Aziraphale and I have a question that needs settling, and we need your input.”

“About what?”

“Right now, if you had to pick who you would marry between him and me, who would you choose? Me, potentially handsome but mostly just sarcastic and with very few financial prospects? Or Aziraphale, mannerly and posh, easily someone you could carry on long conversations with and take home to meet your parents?”

“That’s… not…”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of his glasses.

“Honestly, I’d choose Aziraphale,” Tracy said loyally. “No offense, love. But I didn’t choose you after round one, so I’m sure you’re not surprised. It’s the Scorpio, really. Terrible love match for me.”

“No, no, makes perfect sense,” Crowley said. “Book-girl?”

Aziraphale glared daggers at Crowley for trying to tilt the scale in Aziraphale’s favor.

“I’m still not completely sure,” Anathema said, slowly, likely calculating the risk to viewer votes if their overlords decided to air this little conversation. “But after tonight, there’s a good chance I’d pick Aziraphale as well.”

Aziraphale groaned in defeat. Honestly, it was sweet of both of them to say so, but he still in no way believed that when the time actually came either of them would choose him over Crowley. Not with the two of them standing there in front of them.

“See, angel? The clothes don’t matter.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “It’s not just the clothes.”

“Then what is it? What is so objectionable about me that you want nothing to do with me?”

But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? There was  _ nothing _ objectionable about Crowley, apart from all the feelings of  _ want  _ he inspired. Aziraphale  _ wanted _ him, his devil-may-care attitude, his humor, his gentleness, his smile, his body…all of him, really.  _ That _ was what was so objectionable. But it wasn’t Crowley who was objectionable, it was Aziraphale.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale mumbled, mushing the treacle around in its dish. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

Crowley didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned back against the vinyl seat with an air of vindication, as if Aziraphale’s answer had just settled the actual question in Crowley’s mind.

“Well, loves, I think I really must turn into a pumpkin. I’m not as young and gay as I used to be.”

“Oh, my dear, I do hope we haven’t ruined your evening,” Aziraphale said.

“Pish tosh, love, you’re fine. The food was excellent, the conversation scintillating, and the entertainment was quite riveting, I assure you.”

“Still, I feel as if our date was taken a bit hostage. I ought to make it up to you.”

“Darling, I’m fine. Just tired. There’s always next week.”

“Alright,” he said, though he remained unconvinced. He was certain this train wreck of an evening would have a deleterious effect on their leaderboard status at the very least.

The surprises were not over for the evening, either, as it turned out that the show had sent only one car to pick up both Aziraphale and Crowley. 

“Save the planet, I suppose,” he said awkwardly as Crowley held the door open for him. He slid into the car and all the way as far over as he could to give Crowley as much space as possible. 

The ride back to the mansion was quiet, but not in the amiable way it had been after their sushi excursion. This silence was a live thing that ate up its fair share of oxygen and then some. Aziraphale felt as if he might slowly suffocate if left in the car too long.

Just when he was about to roll down the window and stick his head out of it like a canine, the car pulled into the mansion’s circle drive.

The walk upstairs to their shared room was much a more somber affair than the one from their last shared restaurant experience. And after they’d both entered, Crowley shut the door firmly behind them and turned to regard Aziraphale with that dark-screened gaze. 

“Alright, Aziraphale, time to pay up.”

“Pay up?”

“A secret of my choosing. I won the bet, after all. And there are no cameras around now.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, drawing himself up as tall and straight as possible.

Crowley regarded him silently for enough agonizing seconds to give Aziraphale plenty of time to sweat.

Then he simply said, “How did you get on the show?”

“What?” Aziraphale asked after a few confused blinks. Why was he asking that?

“How did you get on the show? And don’t worry, your answer won’t leave this room.”

Of all the terrible things Aziraphale had imagined him asking—Are you hiding the fact that you’re gay? Do you have inappropriate feelings for me?—all he wanted to know was how Aziraphale had finagled his way onto the show? Aziraphale was almost floating with relief.

“My brother arranged it,” he admitted. “It is perhaps unconventional, but he explained to them I was a special case.”

“Special how?”

“Oh, no—you asked for one secret.”

“Come on, it’s part of the same secret. Fess up.”

“Why? Why do you want to know this? It won’t affect your chances of winning. You’re in the lead.”

“Just tell me.”

Aziraphale’s stomach roiled in protest. He didn’t want Crowley to see him as weak, as unlovable as his family believed him to be.

“I won’t judge, angel. At least, not you.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “My mother is very specific, you understand. Very exacting.”

“Controlling?”

“Precise,” Aziraphale corrected. “And she requires that all of us siblings be sorted, as she defines it, by the end of the year. In my case…”

“In your case?” Crowley prompted, not unkindly.

“In my case, she wants me married. So the show is a-a shortcut, you see?”

“Whose idea was this shortcut? Yours?”

“Oh, no, I would never. I have no wish to be married to—” Aziraphale cut himself off abruptly, face flooding with heat. “Oh, dear, that really is a secret, and one I should not have said, and not just because of the show. Please don’t repeat it.”

“There’s nothing to repeat, seeing as you didn’t actually finish the thought. And anyway I wouldn’t. Your secrets are safe with me, angel.”

Crowley just stood there, like some kind of Greek-god hybrid of Hades and Adonis, with those words on his lips, looking at Aziraphale like he mattered. It completely undermined all Aziraphale’s effort at building walls between them. How could he hold to his resolve to be good, to do right, to change himself to fit the mold, while someone like Crowley seemed to accept him exactly as he was? That was Crowley’s true effect on him, Aziraphale was only now fully realizing: Crowley illuminated all the parts of him that he was afraid of, and then behaved as if all of those parts were both normal and worth liking. And that completely terrified him.

“You were saying whose idea it was?” Crowley prompted again.

“It was my brother’s idea. He’d arranged it before telling me.”

“Hm, and I can guess how you felt about that,” Crowley said, half-groaned, in fact, as he dragged a hand through his hair in clear consternation. “What a mess.”

“It’s not your mess,” Aziraphale said in a slight grump. Crowley had promised he wouldn’t judge.

“No,” Crowley said in a thoughtful tone that indicated agreement. “But it explains a lot.”

“Listen, I don’t need your sympathy or empathy or whatever,” Aziraphale said, emphasizing the  _ whatever _ as it stood for  _ pity _ and he very much did not want that. “It is my duty to fulfill my familial obligations—”

“By getting married when you don’t want to? Don’t you think that’s a bit recidivist thinking for 2019?”

“I—I don’t have a choice, Crowley.”

“They can’t kill you for not complying with their demands.”

“No, but they can cast me out. And I… They’re my family.”

Crowley sat heavily on his bed with a sigh. “And you’re not willing to abandon  _ them _ .”

Aziraphale fidgeted, dropping his gaze from Crowley’s. He’d always been proud of his family. He wasn’t comfortable with Crowley’s obvious insinuation that he shouldn’t be.

“No,” Aziraphale said, though in his heart, it sounded much more like a  _ not yet _ than it should have.

After a long moment where Aziraphale looked anywhere but at Crowley, Crowley finally sighed and divested himself of his blazer and boots. 

“I’m knackered. Okay if I take the bathroom first?” he asked as he got up again to retrieve his toiletries and pajamas.

“Yes, of course.”

Crowley headed for the bathroom, closing the door between them. And as the sound of the shower kicking on reached Aziraphale’s ears, he couldn’t get the image of a naked Crowley stepping into the spray out of his head. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes to force the image out but to no avail.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up.

“You alright?”

Crowley stood framed in the bathroom doorway, completely clothed, thank god. But heat suffused Aziraphale’s cheeks again anyway.

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Just tired.”

Crowley stilled, studying Aziraphale as if to determine his well-being for himself. If his expression was any indication, his conclusion was exactly right: Aziraphale was far from okay. 

“You can trust me, you know,” Crowley said, completely missing the mark as to the reason for Aziraphale’s distress. Aziraphale was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“I believe I can,” Aziraphale agreed with a limp smile. “Go and take your shower before the water turns cold.”

Crowley snorted. “Yes, angel,” he said, in sarcastic submission and then re-entered the bathroom, shutting the door between them. Then he reopened it just as quickly, darting out to get his toothbrush. Brandishing it at Aziraphale in mute explanation, he darted back into the bathroom and shut the door again.

Aziraphale allowed himself a small, fond smile at the inanimate door. Then he shrugged out of his own coat, picked up the nearest book, and deserted the bedroom entirely. There was not the minutest chance he would manage to fall asleep after that conversation. So he figured he might as well retire to the remote nook he’d discovered up in the mansion's tallest turret for some light reading. 

Books were the only place he could ever find solace, the only sanctuary that would unconditionally accept him as he was. Books were the only companions he really needed, he lied to himself, even as he pictured a non-naked Crowley lounging sinuously on his bed, thumbing through a magazine. It was a lie he had been comfortable with nearly his entire life. It would serve him well enough now. It had to.


	6. Week 2 Results

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voters have weighed in once again after the second week's round of blind dates on their favorite matches. Contestants react to the results prior to heading into week three of the competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fantabulous [Scrumptious_Bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrumptious_Bastard/pseuds/Scrumptious_Bastard) for the amazing Week 2 Reults Leaderboard! Thanks also to my beloved [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk) for their incomparable betaing. And last but not nearly least, thanks to [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies) for all the virtual cookie encouragement while drafting. I have the best team ever!!

**SANDALPHON:** Things are starting to heat up! With Crowley-Anathema in the lead, and Aziraphale-Anathema not far behind, which of the two men will capture the fair maiden’s hand? And will that match manage to win the hearts of viewers, and thus the five-hundred-thousand-pound prize? Meanwhile the Ligur-Uriel match secured the _fewest_ votes this week, which means that match is now out of the running. 

Week 3, which we’re heading into now, still allows you to date your non-reciprocal matches, giving you another chance to convince a contestant who you have chosen, to choose _you_ as well. That means it’s still anyone’s game. 

By the end of Week 3, you will select your number-one match choice, laying the groundwork for your Week 4 proposal. So climb every mountain, as they say, and keep your eyes on the prize while you interact with your matches. And good luck to you!

**URIEL:** Frankly, I’m surprised he chose me again. After the way he summarily ended our Truth-or-Battleship date, I had no interest in pursuing a further relationship. It seems obvious now that Newton and I are a much more solid match, based on our lovely date this week. We had a brunch at opposite ends of Priory Park in Chichester. Sun in the trees, birds singing… It may not have been as intense as my date with Crowley, but intensity isn’t always a sign of a great match. Sometimes slow and steady wins the race.

**NEWT:** It was a complete disaster. [laughs ruefully] I honestly don’t know what went wrong. The camera-glasses should have worked, but they kept shorting out on me for some reason. I very much doubt Michael enjoyed the museum at all, as I had to keep interrupting her to troubleshoot the technology. She was sitting in the Egypt Gallery for probably fifteen minutes while I tried to sort it out. But it was like it just stopped bloody working for no reason. I’m not surprised at all that she decided to drop me. I’d drop me too, if I could.

**MICHAEL:** It was not ideal. And I knew it wouldn’t be, which is why I didn’t choose him as a match after the first week. He’s too chaotic and sarcastic, and worse, he thinks he’s god’s gift to humanity. What a laugh. More like the serpent that foisted forbidden knowledge onto humanity. The _hubris_ on that one… Well, yes, on its face, dressing up in mascot costumes and volunteering at a children’s hospital seems like a charitable idea. But I don’t _play_ with _children_. I didn’t even play with children when I was a child. It certainly was not my idea of a suitable date. [sniffs disdainfully] Now Ligur, on the other hand. I met him at a proper restaurant, and he was a perfect gentleman. He isn’t a child trapped in a man’s body like some other contestants I could name.

**HASTUR:** Dagon’s a peach. Better than all the other females here put together… Tracy? Now, she’s a weird bird. Tried to read my fortune, saying I needed to let go of my inner demons and expand my imagination or some rot… Look, if I’d wanted a _bleep bleep_ therapist, I’d have gone on Dr. Phil.

**ANATHEMA:** Well, it was interesting, I’ll give you that. Tracy is a sweetheart, of course, so I loved spending the evening with her… The boys were perhaps a bit grumpy? Almost as if they’d been in some kind of argument before they’d arrived. But it was rather fun to listen to. I almost ordered popcorn toward the end… No, I don’t think it harmed anything. They were just…bickering like an old, married couple, you know? I’m sure they’re over it by now. … Yes, I do still wish I’d had a chance to see what dating Newt would have been like, but I suppose it just wasn’t meant to be.

**CROWLEY:** Nope, I am not going to talk about that… Yeah, not going to talk about that, either. You know what I’d like to talk about? I’d _like_ to talk about what’s really going on behind the scenes of this show. Isn’t it true, for example, that the producers conspired to blatantly exploit one of their own contestants? That’s right. I _know_ what you lot agreed to, and I think it’s—

**AZIRAPHALE:** That’s quite alright. It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all. But we’ve worked it all out now, and everything’s tickety-boo… It is gratifying to see that Anathema and I have bumped up in the rankings to second place. She is such a dear, and I think we are very compatible, what with our shared love of literature… Oh, and Tracy is lovely, as well. Really, I couldn’t go wrong with either of my choices. I am quite lucky. Yes…quite lucky…

**LIGUR:** It’s easy to woo if you do it right. It’s why Michael and I are in the top three. We make the most sense together. We may have slipped a notch, but that’s just temporary. No one wants to see an old, pudgy, white-haired bloke win at romance, not really. And Crowley will mess it up before the end, mark my words. He’ll never go the distance. He’ll slither down the rankings like the snake he is.

**DAGON:** At the end of the day, I couldn’t stand the sound of his breathing… Not particularly loud, no. Just quick, anxious. Can’t abide anxiety in a person. Just own your feelings, for Christ's sake. S’like nails on a chalkboard—makes me peevish. Now, Hastur’s a man who knows what he wants, says what he means, puts himself out there. Hastur is a man’s man… Alright, no. I did not particularly care for his choice. I was expecting a romantic dinner at the Goodwood Hotel, not a multi-level marketing presentation. But I will be vetting his date ideas in future, so problem solved.

  
**TRACY:** You’re sweet to ask, love, but I’m not worried. Everything is exactly as it should be at this stage. Fourth place is wonderfully auspicious in terms of numerology. It resonates with the vibrations of patience, devotion, trust, loyalty, and building of solid foundations. I am perfectly confident that the cosmic energies will align at the right moment. This has all been foreordained by our spirit guides, you know… Oh, bless his heart. He will make the right decision. It will take him a while to come around to it, but he will. You’ll see.


	7. Second Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we're into the third week of the competition, the second round of actual dates with the matches that our contestants chose from round two. The dates this week are still blind, meaning that the contestants aren't allowed to see each other. But tensions are ramping up as the competition is now more than halfway over. The contestants have narrowed their match-choices down to two, but by the end of this week, they'll narrow their choice again to _one_ \--the one person they want to propose to. 
> 
> And once again, after this week's episode airs on Saturday night, viewers will vote for their favorite couple, and the couple with the least votes is disqualified as a couple. This time, though, because the contestants are only allowed one choice of match to move forward with, there is a very real risk that someone will be eliminated from the competition altogether and be sent home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra cw for this chapter for a brief bit of violence. No one is terribly damaged by it, and it is a single incident, though no one is terribly regretful about it either. (End notes contain spoilery specifics for anyone who might be concerned.)

The second week of dates had gone well for Aziraphale thus far. On Monday, he’d taken Tracy to the cinema to see a Rodgers and Hammerstein film from the forties. It had been a delightful experience, despite sitting an entire theater apart from each other. She’d whispered into his ear piece about all the times she’d seen the film with previous beaus, and how each scene reminded her of a different relationship, lost but not forgotten. The fond nostalgia with which she related the stories warmed Aziraphale’s heart, even while causing him his own measure of melancholy. He had no such history of his own to look back fondly upon.

On Tuesday, Aziraphale met Anathema, distantly of course, at the British Library. He’d been amazed that she’d yet to see it, despite having relocated to Britain nearly six months prior. He’d resolved to rectify the oversight and arranged for them to tour the library and museum together, though he eschewed Newt’s offer of borrowing his camera glasses for the event. He was practically a luddite himself, and if Newt, who was an unrepentant fan of technology, could not make them work, Aziraphale very much doubted he’d have better luck. Still, the date went swimmingly. They’d talked of hopes and dreams and books, and how all three seemed to intersect.

Though Aziraphale had a lovely time on both dates, he’d still found himself anxious to return to the house, to Crowley. He knew he shouldn’t wish he could share each moment with his roommate instead of potential wives, but he did. He wanted Crowley’s acerbic take on the silly antics of the film characters. He wanted Crowley to tell him as they perused the Shakespeare exhibit that he only liked the funny ones. But he couldn’t have that. His family would never allow it. 

And even if he could, there was not a chance in Hell that Crowley wanted it as well. He was so objectively beautiful. He could have his pick of anybody. Why would he choose a fussy, introverted, old-fashioned, anxiety-prone, soft… Well, there was no point in dwelling on it. Crowley had entered this contest to find a wife, the same as Aziraphale had. 

Against all odds, Aziraphale was actually succeeding at this whole ridiculous affair. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by Crowley’s jewel-coloured hair and striking eyes… _no, don’t go there_. After this week, he would have two very strong contenders for the position of Mrs. Fell. Surely that would make Gabriel happy.

Aziraphale really should have known better.

The next morning, Sandalphon approached Aziraphale while he and Crowley were having a chat over breakfast, his face a picture of wicked glee. 

“There’s a special guest here to see you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale swallowed, the bite of crepe in his mouth suddenly dry as cardboard. Crowley perked up from where he was fiddling with his mobile.

“I thought we weren’t allowed visitors,” Aziraphale said, hopefully.

“We’re making an exception. Your brother Gabriel is very persuasive.”

Aziraphale twisted his fingers under the table. “He’s here?” he asked, his voice betraying far too much fear at the thought of seeing his brother face to face.

“What the Heaven does he want?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale cringed. The last thing he wanted was for Crowley to think him weak. 

“He’s outside,” Sandalphon said with a skin-crawling wink. “Here to give you a _pep talk_ , I believe is the phrase he used.”

“But why are you allowing him a visit and no one else?” Crowley asked, probably miffed that Aziraphale was getting special treatment. If he only knew how little Aziraphale wanted it.

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “I’m not surprised that he’s managed to get special dispensation from the producers. Gabriel is used to getting his way.”

“Can’t you tell him to piss off?” Crowley asked a confused-looking Sandalphon.

“One doesn’t tell Gabriel to ‘piss off,’” Aziraphale interjected, resigned to his fate. “Thank you, Sandalphon. If you would tell him that I’ll be right out.”

With a head tilt that managed to look like both agreement and disdain, Sandalphon exited the dining area and headed for the door. 

“At least I’m to meet him on the grounds,” Aziraphale continued, no longer interested in his crepes. “Fewer cameras to capture my ignominious scolding.”

“Scolding for what?” Crowley protested. “You’ve been brilliant.”

“I’m in second place, Crowley. That won’t sit well with Gabriel.”

“I thought you were here just to get a wife. Who cares if you win the money?”

“It’s not about the money, or even achieving the goal. It’s that I’m clearly not working hard enough. I’m just… Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s just the way he is.”

“It absolutely does matter. You don’t have to listen to him.”

“I do have to listen, Crowley. He’s my elder brother, and he’s Mother’s right-hand.”

“Your family sounds more like a military regiment than a collection of relatives.”

Aziraphale snorted in amusement. “You’re not wrong. In any case, I have my own way of dealing with them, perfected over years of trial and error. I can listen and not _listen_.”

Crowley gestured at Aziraphale’s clearly abandoned crepes. “You sure about that?”

Aziraphale had to admit Crowley had a point. He wasn’t right, but he had a point. 

Still, Aziraphale knew his duty, so he disposed of breakfast and met Gabriel in the circle drive in front of the house. His brother was dressed in impeccable light-gray and purple, as always, though somehow the knit turtleneck and lavender scarf did little to soften his expression of sanctimonious self-confidence. 

“Impressive place for a pedantic homebody like you,” Gabriel said by way of greeting. “Too garish for my tastes, of course, but new money is just as green, am I right?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond to the needling, knowing full well that Gabriel preferred the silence he could more easily construe as tacit agreement.

“How can I help you, Gabriel?”

Gabriel tsked. “Can’t a person see his brother without there being a justification?”

“I assume you have a message from Mother?” Aziraphale prompted, holding vicariously to Crowley’s belief that he had a right to not be badgered.

“Mother thinks you are doing well enough, but as always would like to see just a tad more effort on your part.”

“I have two perfectly lovely reciprocal matches and am in second place,” Aziraphale reminded him.

Gabriel made a noise like he needed to contradict Aziraphale but rather hated to do it. “Mother believes Tracy is…not really a fit for our family. She’s too…” Gabriel trailed off as he made a fluttering gesture with his fingers.

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said, thoroughly offended on Tracy’s behalf. “Are you implying that Tracy is in any way lacking? Because I can assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. She is—” He bit off the end of the sentence, which had been shaping up to be something along the lines of _far better than the lot of us combined_. 

“What, Aziraphale? She’s what?”

Aziraphale could feel the suppressed rage of decades of slights bubbling up in his chest. He shook with the effort of holding it in. There may not be many cameras filming the conversation, but there were two or three. And the last thing the dear lady needed was for this insult to appear on the show. 

“Calling in favors to get what you want, eh? You must be Gabriel. Aziraphale’s told me a lot about you.”

Crowley strolled up to them with a broad grin that spelled trouble. Aziraphale glared at him to go away, but Crowley’s entire attention was focused on Gabriel, as if he were heading into battle, and Aziraphale was a mostly irrelevant shrub.

“The famous Mr. Crowley,” Gabriel said. “Funny, my brother hasn’t mentioned you at all.”

Aziraphale winces inwardly at that. He’d very specifically not mentioned Crowley to Gabriel for fear that Gabriel would hear, or at least surmise, the feelings that Aziraphale was trying brutally to scour from his heart. But if Crowley was hurt by Gabriel’s words, he didn’t show it.

“Actually, the funny thing is that you’re here at all. Pretty sure there’s nothing in the rulebook that says ‘No contact with outside family, friends, or other members of the public, except for Gabriel Fell, who can come and go as he pleases.’”

“Crowley, I told you, I don’t need your help,” Aziraphale muttered quietly to his roommate. “I can handle this.”

“Really, angel? Because you’re trembling like a leaf,” Crowley muttered, low enough to escape Gabriel’s hearing. 

Aziraphale drew himself up as tall as he could, mortified that Crowley had noticed his lack of composure.

“Angel?” Gabriel said. “Why does he call you angel?”

“He has nicknames for everyone,” Aziraphale said, just as Crowley snarled, “It’s none of your business, stump-neck.”

“Stump-neck?” Aziraphale said, a hysterical giggle slipping out before he regained control of his diaphragm. 

Crowley’s grin slipped into something more genuine as he flashed it at Aziraphale before brittling again as he turned back toward Gabriel.

“I honestly don’t get why you think your input is so incredibly valuable that you had to deliver it in person,” Crowley said. “But now that you have, why don’t you go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and stew in your own acrimony until you pickle yourself?”

“Oh, please. As if I’d take orders from a low-life snake like you. Aziraphale needs my guidance. He’s an ineffectual mess without me. Don’t you agree, sunshine?”

Crowley visibly bristled at Gabriel, offended enough to scowl openly.

“I think you’d better go, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley’s right that it’s against the rules. You wouldn’t want to hurt my chances for first, would you?”

He’d tried to sound neutral yet firm, but judging by Gabriel’s thunderous expression, the firmness may have come out a touch more strongly than the neutrality.

“I doubt it would be me hurting your chances. Perhaps your choice of friends might be more to blame,” Gabriel countered, making it clear by the tilt of his head and the look in his eye exactly who and what he meant by ‘friends.’

Aziraphale felt the words like a blow. If Gabriel even half suspected Aziraphale’s true feelings for Crowley, then all of this was for naught, and he could kiss his beloved bookstore goodbye.

Some measure of Aziraphale’s fear and dismay must have shown on his face, because Crowley reacted instantaneously.

“You bastard,” he hissed at Gabriel and lunged forward, clocking Gabriel full in the mouth. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, aghast. No one had ever hit Gabriel in Aziraphale’s presence, not once in his entire life. 

Gabriel dabbed at his split lip, his fingertip coming away red with blood. His gaze flicked up to Crowley’s.

“You’re going to regret that,” he said with deceptive calm.

“I highly doubt it, Gabe,” Crowley said, shaking his hand as if it hurt.

Gabriel turned on his heel and marched back to his silver Mercedes, scarf flapping indignantly in the breeze.

Aziraphale gave Crowley his most reproachful frown as the cameras, which had doubled in number since the conversation had begun, stood recording everything and everyone around them. 

Crowley snorted. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

“What on earth did you do that for?” Aziraphale rounded on Crowley, furious.

“He was being a prick,” Crowley said with a gesture at the retreating Mercedes as if it were blatantly obvious.

“There are cameras everywhere, Crowley,” Aziraphale needlessly pointed out. “You just made the whole situation ten times worse!”

Crowley’s entire demeanor instantly changed, as if all the anger had drained out of him at once.

But with a sort of dawning horror, Aziraphale realized he hadn’t considered that Crowley might have ulterior motives, specifically motives related to the bloody game. 

“Maybe you _wanted_ them to film you coming to your hapless roommate’s rescue, so you could look the hero.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Or maybe you engineered the entire quarrel just to knock me out of the running with Anathema.”

“No! Not at all! Look, I know it wasn’t the best—”

“Just stop,” Aziraphale said, doing his best to quell the hurt that he felt welling up in him, that he knew must be showing in his eyes. What an idiot he’d been. Thinking that Crowley had only reacted to Gabriel’s insults out of protective instinct for a friend. Nothing was ever as it seemed. 

Meanwhile, the cameras were still rolling, recording for posterity every chink in Aziraphale’s armor with regard to his feelings for Crowley. He swallowed hard, eyes prickling with tears he dare not shed, now or ever. 

He did the only thing he could given the circumstances. He turned tail and fled. Not back towards the house, but out, elsewhere, anywhere Crowley was not. He walked around the property until he reached the hedge that separated the two halves of the garden. 

He dropped to a bench just shy of the hedge, letting his head fall into his palms.

“Hello?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up again. “Anathema?” he said, mortified.

“Oh! Is that you Aziraphale? I wasn’t expecting…er, that is, I didn’t think anyone was there.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s me,” he said, his tone pathetically woebegone.

“Why afraid?” she teased gently. “I’m not that much of a monster, am I?”

“Oh, no, dear girl. I’m just… Never mind. How are you? Is there a bench as well on your side? I hope I am not keeping you from reading.”

She laughed, and was he imagining it, or did it sound a trifle nervous? “No. I mean, yes, there is a bench here. But I wasn’t reading. I’m just, you know, out, um, exploring the grounds. It’s beautiful today, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale responded, looking up at the sapphire sky and feeling the sea-cool breeze on his face. It _was_ beautiful, but he still wished himself home, safe in his bookstore.

He glanced up and noticed Newt walking towards him. Aziraphale waved slightly in greeting, and Newt startled at seeing him there.

“Looks like…” Aziraphale started to say, but then Newt veered off, heading in the opposite direction from where Aziraphale was sitting, stuffing his hands into his pockets and bowing his head as if trying to disappear into the background. Brilliant. Even Newt found him objectionable. Attempting to convince another person to love him, or even like him, was looking more and more like a lost cause. He’d felt so optimistic before Gabriel turned up, before Crowley… Aziraphale buried his face in his hands, glad Anathema couldn't see the state he was in.

“Looks like what?”

“Never mind,” he said for the second time in the conversation. “You were saying it’s a beautiful day?”

“Are you alright, Aziraphale? You sound tense.”

He sighed. He supposed he might as well tell her. It would be all over this week’s episode, Aziraphale was sure of it. And though they weren't allowed to watch the episodes, word still got around.

“Crowley and I had an argument.”

“Really? Well, I guess that’s not that surprising. I hope it wasn’t about me.”

“No…that is, not at first, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother came to visit—”

“I thought we weren’t allowed to have visitors.”

“We’re not, but he just does what he wants. He’s very entitled. Anyway, Crowley interrupted us and he punched Gabriel.”

“He just punched him for no reason?”

“Well, not for no reason. Gabriel insulted him.”

“Look, why don’t you start from the beginning. I’m getting lost.”

So Aziraphale did. He told her about his and Crowley’s conversation prior to Gabriel’s visit, then about Gabriel’s wounding words, then about Crowley’s reaction. It took longer to explain it all than to live it, and in the telling, it took on a monstrous quality that turned his stomach into a rumbling pit of acid and bile. 

“And now you think Crowley did all that just to damage your reputation?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I don’t know anymore. It makes the most sense.”

“No,” Anathema said, drawing out the vowel longer than perhaps strictly necessary. “What makes the most sense is that he thought he was defending you against a bully.”

“Why would he? I’m his competitor.”

“And his friend?”

“His roommate. We’re not friends. I don’t even like him.”

Anathema sighed heavily. “You do. I can hear it in your voice.

“I…” But he was out of rope to hang himself with.

“I know Crowley pretty well by now,” she went on. “And one thing Crowley isn’t is machiavellian. He’d set up a roomful of whoopee cushions, but he wouldn’t fabricate friendship just to stab someone in the back.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, willing away the truth behind what she was saying. Because if she was right, then it meant that Crowley actually cared about him. And that Aziraphale had just trampled all over one of the few people in the world who did so.

“I have a question for you,” she said hesitantly. “But I don’t want you to answer it. Not to me, anyway. Just think about it, okay?”

“Alright,” he said, his heart already foundering with regret.

“What do you get out of maintaining the illusion that you’re unlovable? There’s more to it than just your family’s abusive opinions, isn’t there?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said softly, though he thought he might be starting to.

“Just think about it. For me. Okay?”

“Alright,” he said again softly. “For you.”

“You’re a worthy person, Aziraphale. Don’t ever let yourself tell you any differently.”

Aziraphale smiled at that. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, damply.

* * *

Crowley slammed back into the house, stomped all the way to the kitchen, wrenched the freezer door open wide, and plunged his hands into the ice bin without even washing them first. 

How dare Aziraphale assume he was that underhanded and just… How did he not understand that they were friends? Sure, they were competitors. Yes, there was half a million quid at stake. And okay, punching Gabriel had been a bit over the line just now, he could admit that. But accusing him of manipulating the game on purpose? Come on.

He elbowed the freezer door shut, his hands full of ice.

“You smuggling in a penguin?” Hastur asked from just behind Crowley, startling the daylights out of him so that he dropped all the ice on the floor.

“Fuck!” Crowley bent to pick up the skittering cubes.

“I see your day is going well.”

“Fuck off, Hastur.”

“Now, is that any way to treat a fellow contestant, mate? I’m just after a little intel between comrades.”

Crowley glared up at him from his position on the floor, his glasses askew. “That’s three times in two sentences you referred to me as some synonym for friend. Why do I smell a trap?”

Hastur snorted in response. “What’s got you in a snit?”

“None of your business, is it?” Crowley said, scooping up what he could of the ice and placing it on a tea towel.

“Fine, fine.”

“What intel d’you want anyway?” Crowley asked. “If it’s a trap, I’d rather know about it ahead of time.”

Crowley gave up on gathering the remaining ice with his hands and grabbed a broom instead.

“It’s not a trap, just a strategy. Dagon and I will help make sure you and Anathema win, if you split the pot with us. Fifty-fifty.”

“Hell, no.”

“Fifty-forty?”

“That’s not—”

“Sixty-thirty, and that’s my final offer.”

Crowley stared at Hastur until the man started looking shifty, his shoulders drooping under the scrutiny.

“What intel?” Crowley asked again as he tossed the dustpan of ice into the bin and stowed the broom.

“Just summat we could use on your roommate. He’s too close in the rankings. One wrong move from you—”

Crowley could think of several wrong moves he’d already made just that morning.

“—and he’ll knock you clean out of the running. Anathema wins either way, so she’s useless. But you have a vested interest. And you live with the bloke. Give us a smoking gun, and we’ll have him.”

Crowley grabbed his tea towel of rescued ice and shouldered past Hastur without a word, heading for the stairs and the relative safety of his room.

“You’ll regret passing up this golden opportunity!” Hastur called after him.

“I’m sure I will!” Crowley shouted back. And maybe he would. There was no guarantee the bastard wouldn’t run straight to Aziraphale and offer him the same deal. And with Aziraphale as hacked off as he was at Crowley at the moment, he might just take the git up on it.

Two new enemies in as many hours. That might be some sort of record, even for Crowley. Nevertheless, he didn’t regret either decision. Well, maybe he should have stayed out of Aziraphale’s affairs, but he sure as Hell didn’t mind wiping the shit-eating grin off that sanctimonious prick’s face. He rather hoped he’d get to do it again someday.

This was all fucking Sandalphon’s fault, really. Bastard had obviously seen the reels of Crowley’s conversation with Uriel and decided to dial up the drama by allowing stupid stump-neck onto the property in the first place.

Crowley settled onto his bed and rested the ice-filled tea towel on his bruised knuckles. He barely even winced. This was hardly his first punching match, after all. His eyes drifted to Aziraphale’s empty chair. He’d really, really love for Aziraphale to read to him right then. Or at least, someday. He’d never ask, of course, but it would be wonderful if the angel could just somehow know and start reading aloud without making a fuss over it. He had such a soothing voice.

“Crowley?”

Crowley startled again, though this time he managed to hang onto the ice but for a stray cube or two.

“Jesus, angel. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I do apologize, but I…well, I came to…” Standing in the doorway between their room and the hallway, Aziraphale gestured awkwardly. “Well, to apologize, actually.”

Crowley sighed heavily. “Angel, I don’t think—”

“No, no, I know what you’re going to say. And I still think hitting Gabriel was a bad idea, but…I’ve thought about it, and I really don’t believe you were using the argument as a ploy to solidify your position in the contest. I should have known better immediately, but I was so… Well, it doesn’t matter. I behaved poorly, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

After offering this conciliatory speech, Aziraphale raised his gaze from the floor to meet Crowley’s, and it suddenly felt as if Crowley were the one being punched. The angel looked sad and afraid. As if he feared Crowley’s response. And it was all Crowley could do to keep from leaping up and sweeping the man into a hug.

“Angels don’t need forgiveness,” Crowley said, weaving as much comfort and affection into his voice as he could. “But if you did, you’d have it.”

Aziraphale’s breath whooshed out, and his frigid posture melted a bit as well. Biting his lip, he stepped hesitantly into the room, then, seeming to come to a decision, he moved towards Crowley with more conviction. When he reached Crowley’s side, he sat on the bed next to him, perching like a prim canary.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Crowley passed him the tea towel of ice, and with a small wiggle, Aziraphale took Crowley’s injured hand in his own and placed the icy towel gently on top. Crowley submitted meekly to the completely unnecessary ministrations, while Aziraphale clucked over the abraded skin and faint bruising that was already starting to show.

“You really are a piece of work, Anthony J. Crowley,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “I can take care of myself you know.”

“You were trembling,” Crowley reminded him.

“I was trembling with anger,” Aziraphale qualified.

“Would you really have sent him away if I hadn’t shown up?”

Aziraphale hesitated, hiding his insecurity with his attentions to Crowley’s hand. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. He was insulting Tracy, so I may have. But I’ve never had the strength of will before, so there’s hardly a precedent to judge by, is there? I am not known for my bravery.”

“Hey,” Crowley said gently, waiting for Aziraphale to look up at him. “I think you’re very brave.”

Aziraphale grimaced and shook his head.

“You are,” Crowley insisted, shoving the ice away and clasping Aziraphale’s hand without pretense, so maybe he’d actually pay attention for goddamn once. “And strong. Anyone would have to be to put up with that their entire life and still be as selfless as you.”

A tiny smile stole onto Aziraphale’s face, and it lifted Crowley’s spirits to see it. Maybe all wasn’t lost.

“It was somewhat gratifying to see him get punched in the mouth,” Aziraphale admitted guiltily.

Crowley laughed.

“But I still disapprove,” Aziraphale hastened to add. “Violence is not the answer, dear.”

“It is when he’s emotionally bludgeoning y--someone,” Crowley corrected, mirth dissolving at his near slip. Still, he gripped Aziraphale’s fingers tighter as he followed that up with, “I won’t stand for it.”

“He’s my brother,” Aziraphale said around a heavy sigh. “He doesn’t mean to hurt me. He just…doesn’t understand me.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t understand you?”

Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. Looked pretty much everywhere else, as a matter of fact. “When I was ten, my siblings locked me out of the house one night. It was late October and the frost was already settling in. Gabriel told me afterwards that it was for my own good, to toughen me up. But I barely slept for a month out of fear they’d do it again. I nearly failed all my classes that semester. So you see, it didn’t toughen me up at all. It only made me weaker.”

“Aziraphale, any ten-year-old would have been terrified by that. Didn’t your mother punish them for doing that to you?”

Aziraphale still wouldn’t look at him. He fidgeted instead. “She said adversity builds character. And she was right. Adversity does build character. It just builds it differently in different people. In any case, Gabriel does have my best interests at heart.”

Crowley had a great flood of feeling about whether Gabriel actually had his younger brother’s best interests at heart. But he didn’t argue the point. The middle of a televised dating contest was hardly the time to reopen old wounds. The more immediate question was whether Aziraphale was okay _now_.

“How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale shook his head, a sad smile replacing his earlier amused one. “I’m not the one dealing with bruised knuckles and Gabriel’s impending wrath.”

Crowley chuckled. “Fair enough. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too. I know you can take care of yourself.”

Aziraphale slid his hand from Crowley’s grip in order to reposition the ice. “You should leave this on for at least fifteen minutes,” he said.

“Yes, doctor,” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale shot him an adorable look of affectionate exasperation before dropping his gaze to their joined hands. Crowley resisted the urge to lean against Aziraphale’s shoulder, though it took an iron will.

Turned out that fleeting closeness was impossible to hold. Word had got round about Crowley’s punching Gabriel, and the more the other contestants peppered him and Aziraphale with questions, the further away from him Aziraphale seemed to drift.

Later that night was his date with Anathema, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He liked book-girl well enough, of course, but his dates, even with her, always seemed like a distraction from what he really ought to be doing: Figuring out how to get through to Aziraphale, to make him understand that they were friends, that Crowley wasn’t going to abuse him the way others in his life had. But at the end of the day, he had to follow through on his commitments. The joke shop wasn’t going to save itself.

Crowley arranged to meet Anathema at the South Downs planetarium for the Seven Wonders of the Solar System show. The spectacle itself was fantastic, of course, but he couldn’t help his right leg jiggling impatiently through almost the entire thing. Anathema wouldn’t have noticed since she was on the other side of the auditorium. Still, she somehow managed to pick up on his distraction, because as they were wandering independently through the exhibits after the show, she asked:

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, ‘course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Aziraphale told me about your fight with Gabriel.”

“He did what? When? Your date with him was yesterday, but the fight happened this morning.”

“We happened to cross paths at the hedge.”

“Hedge? What hedge?”

“Never mind. Point is, he was quite upset, especially with you.”

“We made up. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“He’s hard to pin down. Warm one moment, withdrawn the next.”

“He’s working through some stuff.”

Crowley snorted. “Aren’t we all?”

“So here’s a get-to-know you question.”

“Oh, Satan. Should I be worried?”

“Probably.” Then she paused a bit for what he could only assume was dramatic effect. “What is so important about your past that you would sacrifice your future to hold onto it?”

“Ngk…I… What?”

“You heard me.”

“I—I—I—“ followed by a long string of consonants in random configurations, but with no actual words in the bunch.

“You don’t have to answer right this second. I just figured you might need to know the answer, even if you only tell yourself,” she said and changed the subject.

As they meandered through the gallery, they thankfully stayed away from any further soul-searching, chatting mostly about the other contestants. Anathema seemed especially curious about the bicycle bloke with the glasses, though they’d gotten knocked out of the running as a match early on. Inevitably, the conversation worked its way around to Aziraphale again.

“And you’re roommates, right? How is that going, given everything?”

“Well enough, I suppose. Honestly, he’s a saint for putting up with my snoring.”

“A saint, or an angel?” she said with a smirk he could hear through the phone line.

“You noticed that, did you?”

“The other night. At the Solarium. What’s the story there?”

“Oh, nothing,” Crowley said. “He just lights up, you know? Like a halo. When he smiles.”

“I see,” she said quietly.

A comfortable hush fell between them as Crowley thought about Aziraphale and halos and Gabriel’s near-derogatory nickname that wasn’t too far off from Crowley’s. But it was different. Because Crowley didn’t mean it to be demeaning. He meant it to be… Then he finally twigged that Anathema hadn’t said anything in a while, and that too much silence was probably a bad thing.

“Don’t go thinking he’s the better option than me,” he jumped in, though in truth, Aziraphale probably _was_ the better option. “I am a serious catch.”

“I am confident of that,” she said, with what was very likely an eye-roll.

When Crowley arrived back at their room after the date was over, there was no Aziraphale to be found. Crowley cursed under his breath as he dumped his jacket and wallet on his bed and went to look for the wandering angel.

In the end, it took him over half an hour to find him, mostly because, of all the places in the house, Aziraphale had chosen to hide away at the very top of the tallest staircase. Which was the last place Crowley’s tired body really wanted to go right then.

“Planning on flying away, were you?” Crowley grumped at him once he’d climbed the last stair. Then he fully took in the view. “Oh, wow. You can see everything from up here.”

Aziraphale sighed and set down the book he’d been reading, looking up at Crowley through his gorgeous lashes from his position on the only piece of furniture in the…room? Would one call this a room?

“I told you I was stargazing,” Aziraphale said. And it was true. You could see nearly all the stars in the South Downs from up here. “Found this turret room on the second day we were here. Frankly, I’m surprised no one else has tried to claim it, given its incomparable view.”

“I’m not,” Crowley said, even as he paced along the floor-to-ceiling windows, touching the glass with near reverence. “It’s a bloody lot of stairs to get up here, you know.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Aziraphale said with what sounded like a note of regret in his voice.

“Wait, angel,” Crowley said, abandoning the window and reaching a hand out to stop Aziraphale’s descent. “I was looking for you, not stars.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, his voice unnaturally casual. “What for?”

Crowley fumbled through a series of random sounds before landing on, “I just wanted to check in. On the day, and all. How’re things? How’s Tracy?”

“Tracy was lovely, as always. Beautiful stroll along the boardwalk. In opposite directions, of course, but we ran into a few of the same characters. Why do you ask?” 

When Crowley wasn’t immediately forthcoming—being too caught up in the way the moonlight drew kaleidoscope highlights from Aziraphale’s curls—Aziraphale filled the gap.

“I suppose you’re concerned that she and I might bump you and Anathema from the top spot?”

“Hardly,” Crowley said, mouth dry. “Wouldn’t dare give your brother the satisfaction.”

As soon as the words were out, Crowley wanted to recall them, afraid they’d destroy Aziraphale’s mood, and thus the delicate bridge between them. But Aziraphale surprised him by laughing.

“No, we definitely wouldn’t want that.”

His blue eyes sparkled in the low light of the desk lamp next to the chaise he'd been sitting on. 

Crowley’s body nearly betrayed him then, leaning as it did towards its temptation. His eyes joined the mutiny, flicking to Aziraphale’s lips to trace the length and breadth of them. His hands twitched, his breath caught in his throat. None of them obeyed him in the slightest. No doubt they knew that his heart wasn’t in his protest. 

And maybe… maybe Aziraphale felt it, too, the magnetic pull. Because he was looking up at Crowley, a question in his beautiful blue eyes. And he was leaning now as well, towards Crowley. Crowley opened his mouth to say something but no sound came out. 

So he surrendered, allowing his arms to drift up, to reach out to the angel, to pull the prize he really wanted close...

“Shall we go back down?” Aziraphale said somewhat sharply, looking suddenly pale. “It’s getting late, you know, and it’s been a Hell of a day.”

“I…” Crowley cleared his throat, as he forced his various recalcitrant body parts back under his control. “Er, yeah, probably best.”

Then he followed the angel back down to earth, cursing his bloody luck the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel gets punched by Crowley for being a giant asshole. It's one punch, and Gabriel's lip starts to bleed a tiny bit. As always, take care! If you want to skip that part, stop reading at "Aziraphale felt the words like a blow" and then start reading again five dialogue-paragraphs later. It's a pretty small part.
> 
> Also, thanks, everyone, for the wonderful comments!! Keep 'em coming, as they make my entire day. *hugs all of you precious people* See you all again on Tuesday for the next results chapter!


	8. Week 3 Results

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, voters have weighed on their favorite matches after the third week's round of blind dates. As before, contestants react to the results, prior to heading into the _final week_ of the competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to [Scrumptious_Bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrumptious_Bastard/pseuds/Scrumptious_Bastard) for all the talent and effort that went into these amazing leaderboards!! This story is so much better because of them. And utmost thanks as well to [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk) for their much needed betaing and cheerleading, and to [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies) for being an amazing artist/teammate as well! (Look for more of Tarek's fabulous art in chapter 9!)

**SANDALPHON:** We’re down to one last week of the competition now. After the final blind dates tomorrow and Tuesday, we’ll move on to the reveal-proposals, and from there, to weddings and the crowning of the victors. Who will win the five-hundred-thousand pounds and bragging rights as Britain’s Favorite Couple? We’ll find out next Wednesday through live voting from our viewers during the show! 

But that’s all still to come. Let’s talk about last week’s results. Looks like we’ve had an upset in the rankings. Crowley and Anathema, our couple to beat, have slipped down to second place this week, leaving Ligur and Michael to snatch the top spot, climbing from third place to first in the space of a single week! Good job, you two. Whatever you’re doing, keep at it! 

Meanwhile Aziraphale and Anathema have slipped to third place. Everyone else stayed level for the most part, except Newt and Uriel, who received the fewest votes. I’m sorry, but your match has officially been eliminated. This leaves Uriel without a partner to continue with in the next round. 

Uriel, you’ve been a fabulous contestant. Sorry to have to send you home today. But you can’t have a winner without losers. We wish you the best in life and in love. 

As for the remaining contestants, good luck and godspeed. The final battle approaches.

**URIEL:** I didn’t have a fair shake, did I? Forget this _bleep_ show, I’m leaving. Stop the cameras…

**DAGON:** I’m frankly surprised it wasn’t Anathema. She’s such an annoying personality. _Take your feet off the sofa, Dagon. Can’t you turn down the volume on the telly, it’s after midnight?_ Such a teacher’s pet, stick in the mud, that one. … Or that weirdo Tracy? I have no idea how she even made it on the show, honestly. At least Uriel was actual competition.

**MICHAEL:** I told you we’d win. It only makes sense. We’re the power couple here. Crowley and Anathema might have had some odd, flamboyant chemistry, but it’s Ligur and I who’ll go the distance. The audience sees that, and is giving us our reward.

**LIGUR:** I liked Uriel well enough, but at the end of the day, she was too serious to really capture the audience’s imagination. … I suppose, if you want to compare them, yeah, Michael does have her serious moments. But she’s a dominant personality, which people gravitate to on a different level. They want somebody in control, and she exudes that. … Nah, Michael’s a closer, for sure. People want to vote for someone they respect.

**ANATHEMA:** I’m…actually a bit confused. How did Uriel get eliminated? … So because she and Newt had the least votes as a pair, the match was eliminated. I get that. But why did _she_ have to— … Oh, I see. Because she could only choose one person this round, and she chose Newt, but her and Newt as a pair were eliminated. …Wait, but Newt chose Tracy, and she didn’t choose him back, so why isn’t he also eliminated? … Got it. So he has one more chance to win her favor, because as a _pair_ , he and Tracy were _not_ eliminated. That’s—that’s interesting…

**HASTUR:** Look, I’m not saying that the pasty _bleep_ cheated, but I’m not _not_ saying that either. … Well, he gets special treatment, doesn’t he? His relatives come by whenever they want. He’s clearly bought his way onto the show. … No, I don’t have proof, but he hasn’t denied it either. All I’m saying is that I want a look at his receipts. And you should, too. We all should. We deserve to know the truth. Cheaters shouldn’t prosper.

**NEWT:** I feel bad, honestly. Like I’m a bit responsible? Maybe if I’d been…I don’t know, more interesting? Maybe she’d still be with us today. … Oh, no. No, of course I didn’t mean to imply that she’s _died_. Sorry. I just say the wrong thing sometimes. … No, there’s not a shot in Hell I’d win at this point. I think Tracy’s great, but I have other reasons for staying.

**TRACY:** Well, I’m sure _I_ don’t know, love. My spirit guides only told me to tell you that Carl says hello and to check your brake wires. I can’t tell you any more than that. … What? Oh, right. Yes, Aziraphale is a dear. We had the best time at the cinema, you know. … All that unpleasantness with his brother didn’t happen until after our date, so I don’t know the details. Even if I did, though, I’m not one to gossip about a friend. … I’m sure Aziraphale knows what he’s about. I have the utmost faith in him. He isn’t as green as he is cabbage looking. … Hmm? Yes, dear. Brake wires. I wouldn’t dawdle.

**CROWLEY:** Yes, I know we’ve dropped. I’m sure it’s something to do with my scuffle with that _bleep bleep_ excuse for a _bleep bleep bleep_ brother of Aziraphale’s. … Am I sorry that I punched him? Yes, I suppose, in that it probably wasn’t terribly fair to Aziraphale. Would I do it again? You better _bleep_ believe it. In a _bleep bleep_ heartbeat. I don’t know why you lot even let him— [mobile rings] Hold on a sec, sorry. It’s just my business partner never calls, and they’ve called three times in a row now. Must be urgent. Won’t be a min— Beez? Beez, slow down. It’s _bleep_ what? How can the shop be _on fire?_ … I’m on my way. [chair crashes to floor]

  
 **AZIRAPHALE:** No, I certainly did not know he planned to visit. … I wish I could explain my family, my childhood. I’ve tried before. It just all sounds either uneventful and privileged, or abusive and awful. And maybe it was all those things in varying measure. I know I’m blessed. I’m one of the lucky ones. Did you know that Crowley grew up an orphan? How hard must that have been? And yet I’m the one who can’t reconcile who I am with what I was supposed to be. … You know, I’m learning a lot through this experience. It’s just…not what I thought it would be.


	9. Proposals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final week of the competition is upon us, which means there are two dates left for the remaining contestants. Then they must choose to either propose to their intended, or bow out of the game altogether and relinquish their shot at the five-hundred-thousand cash prize. 
> 
> With Ligur and Michael in the lead, Crowley and Anathema will have to raise the bar if they want to win the competition. And it's still very much anyone's game, because winning the prize is dependent on _both_ contestants agreeing to marry _and_ viewer votes. So tensions are high, and schemes are unfolding, and the end of our story is nigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that part of the rollercoaster where you've climbed all the way to the top and you're peeking over the edge on a drop so long that your stomach has already packed its bags and run away to join the circus? Yeah, that's where you are right now. So please, stow all your belongings, make sure your seatbelts are secure, and keep your hands, arms, and legs inside the car at all times, and......good luck. I'll see you at the end notes.

Crowley scuffed through the burned out remains of what had once been his joke shop. His inventory, that he’d poured so much time and money into building, was decimated. Even the goods on the shelves and display racks that the fire hadn’t reached were ruined, because they were either soaked from fire hoses or they were so badly damaged by the smoke that he’d never be able to sell them. 

The only thing that had survived was the fucking cash register, which had a singed corner and was all-over soot, but was otherwise operational, for all the good that did. He knelt and picked up a trick yoyo from the floor that had burned so hot, the plastic had melted into a useless lump.

“We don’t have any insurance,” Beez said from where they stood behind him. “We stopped paying the premiums months ago to cut down—”

“I know, Beez.”

Crowley could tell Beez felt awkward and wrong-footed. Comfort and solace were hardly Beez’s wheelhouse.

“Coffee?” Beez suggested, which was odd for them, because it sounded almost like an offer to go procure some for him. Under normal circumstances, Beez would laugh themself silly over the mere thought of getting coffee for anyone else. Besides which, Beez was a die-hard tea drinker.

“I know you slept hardly at all last night,” Beez continued when Crowley didn’t answer. “Heard you puttering around the flat at three a.m.”

Crowley had kipped on Beez’s couch the night before, after the show runners had given him special dispensation to stay the night and deal with the situation. By the time he’d dealt with the fire fighters, then the police, then the arson investigator, who’d been a right arsehole until she’d learned that Crowley had no insurance to collect on, he was exhausted. All he’d wanted then, and all he wanted now, was for a certain angel to wrap his arms around Crowley, chin on his head, and tell him everything was going to be okay. Aziraphale had never even come close to hugging him, let alone holding him, and yet somehow, Crowley knew exactly what it would feel like.

He dimly realised that Beez was still droning on, like a swarm of particularly insistent flies.

“...But we’ve got to get some cleaners in, get this lot sorted or the landlord’ll take matters into his own hands and charge us twice as much for the privilege. The engineers are coming Thursday to assess the structural damage. We need to—”

“Beez, can you just… I’m having a moment here.”

Beez sighed and put an awkward hand awkwardly on Crowley’s shoulder. “You know you really have to win now, don’t you?”

Crowley didn’t answer, just looked down at the melted yoyo again. Memories poked at the edges of his mind. In that corner, now black with soot, he’d taught a boy—Adam, if he remembered right—how to nail the baby-monitor-as-ghost prank for his eleventh birthday sleepover party. Just behind that case, glass now shattered from the force of a fire hose, was where he’d gotten pranked himself by Beez on his own birthday with a cracked-glass mobile screen sticker, which he really should have seen coming. 

This joke shop had been more than just his livelihood, it had been his life. And now it was gone. Unless he could win the stupid contest and stupidly marry a woman he didn’t love and somehow convince an entire country to pay him half a million quid for it. None of it was what he wanted. All he wanted was his joke shop back, and maybe to show it off to a fussy, kind, bookish man with golden hair and a halo smile.

He halted his funereal procession through memory lane at the small desk just under the window to the left of the cash register where he did most of his bookkeeping. On it, he found a stack of half burned invoices for various bills he couldn’t pay, and the only thing still legible was the bright red stamp saying “OVERDUE” on the top page.

He crumpled the charred paper in his fist and tossed it to the ground.

“Bastards,” he muttered to the cold, uncaring void of the universe. “All of you.”

* * *

Aziraphale was concerned. Not worried, but concerned. Crowley had not returned to their room the previous night, hadn't called, nor left a note. When Aziraphale had asked the other male contestants—casually, while mingling over after-dinner drinks—no one else had seen him either, nor knew why he was absent. He’d stayed up late reading one of Agatha Christie’s lesser known (but still thrilling) works just to be sure he didn’t miss Crowley’s return, but the man never made an appearance. Then Aziraphale had woken at his usual dawn hour, well before Crowley usually awoke, to see that Crowley’s bed had not been slept in.

But he was not worried. _Worried_ implied that Crowley was not a grown man and could not take care of himself. _Worried_ meant that Aziraphale had some right to foreknowledge of Crowley’s whereabouts at any given time. _Worried_ was not an emotion allowed to a mere acquaintance, a transient friend for the duration of the show. Aziraphale was merely concerned. That was all.

His concern increased throughout the morning as Crowley failed to appear, and no further information about his location was forthcoming. Crowley was meant to meet Anathema in the pods for a picnic lunch and read-aloud session from each other’s favorite books, which had been Anathema’s suggestion, apparently. Crowley had rolled his eyes when he spoke of it, but he seemed secretly relieved that the date wasn’t more elaborate. They were all getting a bit tired of the pageantry of it all.

He hoped Crowley made it to his date. He certainly intended to ask Tracy whether Anathema had mentioned anything during his date that evening—a do-over dinner at the Solarium. He owed her a proper date, and this time, the show had better not spring a surprise Crowley on him, or he would want a word with the higher authorities. Though, on the other hand, it would be nice to see Crowley safe and sound for himself.

But it was not to be. Tracy and he had a very normal, nice dinner at the Solarium, free of any drama beyond Aziraphale’s own nervous fidgeting and absent “hmm?”s when he lost the thread of conversation.

“Are you quite alright, love? You seem a mite distracted this evening,” Tracy said kindly.

“It’s only… I was wondering. Did Anathema happen to mention whether her date with Crowley had gotten postponed? I… Well, I haven’t seen him since yesterday, and I was just growing a bit…”

“Worried?”

“Concerned,” he corrected.

“I see. Well, no need to fret. He and Anathema had a proper date over luncheon. In the conversation pods, you know. Only there was a bit of a dust up…”

“A dust up? How so? Did they argue?”

“Oh, no. It’s just that Crowley’s joke shop burned down last night, and he—”

“It what?” Aziraphale interrupted, horrified.

“It burned down, love. I think it’s all ruined now, poor soul. I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. He could imagine. He imagined it while sitting there across from Tracy with the curtain between them. His books would go like kindling, his heavy oak furniture would fuel the blaze. He felt sick, like at any moment he might lose the dinner he’d just consumed.

“Th-that’s horrible,” he managed at last.

“Oh, indeed. Poor man was terribly upset. They talked about little else, I’m afraid.”

“I… Oh, Tracy, I’m so sorry, but I must go.”

“I thought you would, dearie. Don’t worry about me.”

“But this is now the second date I’ve short-changed you,” he insisted. “I must make it up to you somehow.”

“I suppose you could always propose,” she said and laughed.

He stuttered more apologies, swallowing down his discomfort at the idea, as he slid from the booth, rushed from the restaurant and practically flung himself into the car. Despite urging the driver to make haste, the journey felt three times longer than usual.

He was out of the car before it had fully stopped in the circle drive, making a beeline for the house and racing up the stairs. He burst into their room, but no Crowley. Thinking quickly, he took the stairs two at a time to the turret room.

Crowley didn’t acknowledge him at first, despite the huffing and puffing that undoubtedly announced his entrance. Just stood with his back to the stairwell, staring out at the night sky.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley. I’ve only just heard. Tracy told me.”

Crowley didn’t turn, though he did sigh heavily and shrug his shoulders into a slump. Aziraphale hurried the last few steps towards him, wanting to touch him, to reassure him. But he couldn’t touch him, and he didn’t know how to reassure him.

Crowley lifted a bottle to his lips and chugged a few swallows of scotch.

“It’s that bad?”

“It’s that bad,” Crowley said, emphasizing the sibilants and slurring slightly. “No insurance, you know.”

“Oh, dear.”

Aziraphale drew his usual reading chair over to Crowley and pushed him down into it.

“It’s over, angel. Joke shop. S’finished.”

“Don’t say that,” Aziraphale chided gently. “We’ll work it out, I promise.”

Crowley shook his head violently. “No, no, s’all gone. You didn’t see it. It’s…it’s all gone.”

Aziraphale perched himself on the deep, low window casement just across from Crowley, their knees almost touching. 

“Tell me what happened?” Aziraphale asked softly. He reached for Crowley’s hand--couldn't bear not to do it if it might comfort Crowley in some way. Crowley’s fingers curled tightly around Aziraphale’s, and he let out a shuddering breath.

“Fire. Arson, they think, but they don’t know who. Thought it was me at first.”

“Arson? You?” It was a lot for Aziraphale to process all at once. “Preposterous.”

“S’what I said,” Crowley agreed. “Only with probably a lot more cursing. Alright, and maybe a little crying.”

He took another pull from the bottle but without relinquishing Aziraphale’s hand.

“They know better now, though, don’t they?” 

“Yeah, once they realized there was nothing in it for me, they moved on. Don’t know if they’ll find anything.”

“But who would want to burn your shop down?”

“No one, I expect,” Crowley rolled his head to the side. “Not a great part of town I was in. Probably just a prank gone wrong.”

“Arson is hardly a prank, Crowley.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. No joke shop.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “What was it like? Before the fire, I mean.”

Crowley favored him with a complicated sardonic look that could have meant anything really. Aziraphale soldiered on anyway.

“It might help to talk about it, the way it was. Make you feel more hopeful?”

Crowley didn’t seem to agree with the notion, if his frown was anything to go by. But he set down the bottle and shifted in his chair just enough to pull his wallet out of his coat pocket and open it. He thumbed out what looked to be a crumpled picture and handed it to Aziraphale before reaching down to retrieve his bottle, still not letting go of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale accepted the picture awkwardly with his left hand, as his right was currently occupied with Crowley’s. When he looked at it, he caught his breath at the whirls of color, and the assortment of intriguing curiosities in the window. The C for Crowley’s name was a sinuous snake, and the colourful, cheerful pandemonium of it all seemed to fit Crowley to a T. No wonder he was so broken up about it. The shop wasn’t just a shop, it was _him_.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” Crowley muttered, gazing absently over Aziraphale’s left shoulder rather than at him. “But it was mine, you know?”

“I understand perfectly,” Aziraphale said and then stopped. This was Crowley’s time to talk. And now that he’d started, it seemed like he suddenly had a lot to say.

“It was my mum’s idea originally, though I suppose it wasn’t an _idea_ so much as one of her episodes.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together to prevent asking a question. The last thing he wanted was to derail Crowley, now that he’d actually started sharing something about himself. 

“She was like that. Winter wind and summer fire, and not a single thing in between. She was either on or she was off. And when she was off, she was completely off. Wouldn’t talk to any of us. For months at a time, it seemed like. But when she was _on_ , she shined. She was funny and kind and brilliant. Far more creative than I could ever be. But she…”

He let the thought go, and Aziraphale didn’t pursue it. He wanted Crowley to say exactly what he wanted to.

“It was right before she split on us. She took me, by myself, which was weird, to be honest. We hardly ever did anything without everyone altogether.” He took another long draw from the bottle. “Anyway, we wandered through the store, and she talked about how we would start a joke shop and it would turn our lives around. We would finally...we would finally...” He gestured wordlessly with the bottle. “It never happened, though obviously. A week later, at midnight, she bundled us all up and into the car, and drove us to the church. I asked a bunch of questions, but sh-she was already gone, wasn’t she? Kept mumbling under her breath about a plan. Never saw her again after that night.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, tightening his grip on Crowley’s hand. But there was nothing else he could say. 

“I guess the joke shop was me trying to hold onto her, the part of her that made me feel hope.” He absently rubbed a finger of his bottle-holding hand against the leather arm of the chair. “But it’s all in-ineffable, isn’t it?” He let go of Aziraphale’s hand to gesture again. “Poof.”

“I think you mean _ephemeral_ , dear,” Aziraphale said, agonizing over whether to take Crowley’s hand again or not when it came down. Turned out, he needn’t have worried, as Crowley took hold of Aziraphale’s hand again immediately, without a second thought.

“Is there anything I can do?” Aziraphale asked, feeling unacceptably helpless. “Please, I want to help.”

“You happen to have half a million quid on you?” Crowley asked with a soft snort.

“No. Not yet, at least. And probably not ever,” Aziraphale admitted. “But you might. You’re only one spot behind. You and Anathema could still…”

He trailed off as he realized what he was saying. What if… what if Aziraphale holding onto Anathema cost Crowley the prize? What if some of the viewers rooting for Aziraphale and Anathema would change their votes to Crowley and Anathema, if Aziraphale weren’t in the picture? Then Crowley and Anathema could beat Ligur and Michael for the prize money, and Crowley could reopen his joke shop. 

The second Aziraphale thought it, he was absolutely decided. There was not the smallest question nor doubt in his mind. He didn’t even bother considering his family’s opinion on the matter. He knew what he had to do, what he _would_ do. He simply knew.

Crowley deserved to win. A person like him—vibrant, loyal, strong, and sweet—deserved every good thing the world had to offer. And it wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t have a fabulous second choice. So what if he didn’t win? His family didn’t need the money, and honestly, what guarantee did he have that they’d let him keep the bookshop anyway? What could they do to him that was worse than taking that away?

“Aziraphale Z. Fell,” Crowley said out of nowhere, seeming a bit less tipsy but still gone enough to sound whimsical. “What’s the Z stand for anyway?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s just a Z, really.”

Then he forced himself to let go of Crowley’s hand. It was difficult, uncurling his fingers. More difficult than it should have been. He pulled his hand back to his chest and leaned forward, tensing his legs and feet to push him up to standing. But before he could, Crowley reached out and touched his cheek with the hand Aziraphale had just abandoned. Aziraphale froze, gobsmacked, as Crowley trailed his fingers down his cheek to cup his jaw.

All thought left Aziraphale completely. It was the only explanation as to why his legs pushed him closer to Crowley rather than further away, why his arms, empty, reached forward to fill themselves with Crowley, and why his lips pressed hard and wanting into Crowley’s lips.

And it felt…it felt…intoxicating. Crowley’s heat, his scent, the deep hum in his chest, the way he moved, the way he _touched_ Aziraphale, as if Aziraphale mattered, as if he were precious. And more to the point, he was _kissing Aziraphale back_. Which. What? How? But before the questions could connect with any deeper thought, Crowley would hum again or shift slightly, and Aziraphale’s senses were flooded anew. 

Then Crowley’s knee pressed insistently against Aziraphale’s inner thigh, working its way upwards, and reason returned in a panic. Aziraphale shouldn’t be doing this. It was bad—a Bad Thing. _The_ Bad Thing. It was unforgivable. And _worse_ , it would hurt Crowley. There were cameras _everywhere_ but the bedrooms. How had he never thought to check if there were any in the turret room? 

Aziraphale jerked backwards as if electrocuted, stumbling in his haste. But he managed to right himself, fisting his hands to force them to stop trembling.

“T-terribly sorry. It’s terribly late. I must go.”

And then he rushed to the stairs, ignoring Crowley calling out his name.

He’d been an _idiot_. A selfish idiot. He’d tried to help and instead risked making things worse. He would make it right, though. He would. And if confronted later on with what he’d done, he’d explain the kiss was his own mistaken assumption, that Crowley had been an unwilling recipient, and that Crowley had only intended to be kind by not pushing away first. 

He reached the kiosk in the sitting room in record time, logged in, and deleted Anathema’s name from his leaderboard without a moment’s hesitation. 

There. Settled. Now to plead with Hastur to let him stay the night in his room. He couldn’t possibly return to his own. Not with Crowley there. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again.

He breathed deep, cricked his neck, and straightened his posture. He’d need to appear sane if he had even a prayer of convincing Hastur. And as he went in search of lodging, he thanked every lucky star that had never once even so much as smiled on him that there were only two days left in the contest. 

He could survive two more days. He could.

* * *

Crowley didn’t so much wake up the next morning as rise from the dead. He lay in bed, head pounding for at least a year, before his need to piss finally superseded his need to die. At which point, he flopped onto the floor and crawled ignominiously to the bathroom, pulling himself up the bathroom sink to a semi-standing position.

It wasn’t until he saw himself in the mirror, sunglasses still on his face, though askew, that he remembered what happened the previous night.

 _FUUUUUUCK_.

“Fuck!” Crowley punctuated the curse with a slap on the innocent porcelain basin, which had been bravely minding its own business not a minute ago. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuckme. FUCK.”

He whirled, wobbled, and righted himself, and then ran into the doorjamb on his way back out of the bathroom.

“Angel!”

But there was no one in the room.

“Bloody, fucking Hell. Where does he get off to so damned _early_ every morning. It’s only—” He scooped up his phone to look at the time, and then immediately dropped it again. “Fuck!”

He scrambled back into the bathroom, blasting the shower as hot as it would go while brushing his teeth and using the toilet at once. He’d have to hurry to catch Aziraphale before he left for his date with book-girl. Ten minutes later, he was dressed and out the door, flying down the stairs to the kitchen.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted again, but Ligur was the only one in the room.

Scowling, Ligur stomped up to him, arms crossed and clearly pissed as Hell.

“You put him up to this, didn’t you, you flash bastard?”

“What? Put who up to what? Have you seen Aziraphale?”

“Nobody’s seen _him_ , but we don’t need to—we’ve seen _that_ —” he pointed to the wall-mounted monitor showing the most updated leaderboard, “—and now everybody’s angry as _fuck_ , because you’re obviously cheating.”

“Cheating? What the fuck are you on about?”

But Ligur didn’t need to answer, because Crowley finally saw it. The missing match next to Aziraphale’s name. 

He’d dropped Anathema.

“Everyone knows that you two have some kind of arrangement,” Ligur sneered. “You’re planning to split the money with him, aren’t you? You and that two-bit witch.”

“Watch it, lizard-lips. One more unfounded accusation out of you, and I will liquefy you to a putrid puddle of—”

“Crowley!”

Crowley jerked as if shot and then spun around. Aziraphale, looking fresh as a daisy, like _the kiss_ never happened, stood there with a disapproving frown directed at _him_ rather than Ligur.

“Where’ve you been?” Crowley demanded. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Ligur tossed his hands into the air in disgust and stomped off.

“I’ve been busy,” Aziraphale said in a cautious tone, his gaze on the ostentatious black and white carpet.

Crowley’s arm shot out towards the leaderboard. “You…you dropped book-girl! _Why_?”

“I am in love w-with Tracy. I only just realized it yesterday evening,” Aziraphale said, though his stumble was telling.

“Bullshit.”

That earned him a direct glare at least.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you. If you’ll excuse me, I have preparations to make.”

“Preparations for what? You just ditched your date for today, so it’s not like you have any place to be. Your date with Tracy was last night.”

The words _last night_ conjured up a host of hazy memories in Crowley’s mind that he very much wanted to explore in greater detail in the clarifying light of day. But Aziraphale was as maddeningly distant as ever, if not more so. 

“Proposals are this evening, Crowley, or did you forget? Honestly, if you don’t have _some_ thing prepared for Anathema, she very well may turn you down, prize money or not.”

“Nnnghhh—” Crowley’s brain went offline for thirty full seconds as he tried to wrap his mind around the word _proposals_.

“I really must go,” Aziraphale said, though his determined tone had been replaced by one of resignation. And before Crowley could persuade his mouth into objecting, Aziraphale had slipped through the door and was gone.

Crowley growled in frustration, torn between taking off after the man and tracking down Sandalphon to demand that he reinstate Anathema on Aziraphale’s leaderboard. It wasn’t right. Something was off about this whole thing. _Why_ would Aziraphale capitulate that easily? Why wouldn’t he stay in the fight to the end? Crowley knew it was stupid, but he felt abandoned. As if Aziraphale had left him in the trenches alone.

As he was still deliberating his options, Newt came strolling in, hands in pockets, with that relaxed look of someone who has no idea what’s going on and is pretty much okay with that. He passed Crowley to get to the kitchen area, and then rummaged around in the fridge for an apple.

“So, you going to go through with it?” Newt asked him before biting into his apple.

“I… I don’t really have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Newt said, gesticulating with his apple. “Like Aziraphale.”

“What do you mean, ‘like Aziraphale’?”

“Well, he chose you, didn’t he?”

“What? No, he didn’t. He’s marrying Tracy.”

Newt shrugged. “Yeah, but he chose Tracy so you could win.”

“For the last time, there’s no arrangement,” Crowley barked. “We’re not cheating the system. I had no idea he was going to take her off, and we have no agreement to share the winnings.”

“You’re not getting it,” Newt said patiently, regarding Crowley placidly. “He chose Tracy so that _you_ could win, not so that he could win.”

The pieces slotted into place with the awful _ka-ching_ of his worthless cash register. Of course, the angel would want Crowley to win after the sob story he’d laid on him about his joke shop and his mum. Aziraphale was _that_ much of a sodding martyr. What a sentimental, selfless idiot. 

“How do you know that?”

“It wasn’t obvious?”

Now that he mentioned it, it was obvious. Crowley dragged a hand through his hair. This was unacceptable. He should have known the second Ligur pointed it out. 

“Fuck,” he said, and he went in search of Sandalphon.

* * *

Aziraphale was a master fretter. He’d refined the art of fretting to an almost divine echelon by this point, and would dare anyone to a fretting competition, were such a thing to ever exist.

One competition at a time, though. He still needed to get through his proposal and then marriage to Tracy, whom he loved…and yet…didn’t. Oh, what a mess.

The entire cast of the show had been herded into two separate vans and transported to a romantic venue on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It would be the same location as the weddings the following day, so they’d been told to pack their things and bring them along. 

Luckily, he’d had very little to pack, as he wore basically the same outfit every day. Boring khaki pants, boring tan and blue argyle vest, bland tartan bow tie. 

He was not, by any means, a catch, and Tracy would see that straight away. She’d kindly turn him down, and he would have to brave his family’s displeasure. But he would validate their belief that he was a lost cause, and perhaps they would lose interest in trying to rehabilitate him, granting him some measure of freedom by default. Perhaps they’d even let him keep the bookshop, at least for a while.

That was the best outcome he could hope for. But either way—whether she said yes or she said no—Aziraphale would never see Crowley again, and that hurt far, far more than it should. 

Aziraphale touched his lips. And for a moment, the fretting dissolved into a rapturous memory of being wanted, of being seen. 

Then he caught sight of the suitcase on the floor next to his new bed, and the fretting began again in earnest. At the very least, he wouldn’t have to share this bedroom with anyone. Each of them had their own for their last night as single people. The fact that he doubted he’d be able to fall asleep without the sound of Crowley’s soft breathing was not to be indulged. Sleep was overrated in any event.

An antiquated clock on the mantelpiece of the now tastefully bricked-over fireplace chimed the hour, and Aziraphale, for better or worse, gathered the flowers he’d procured for Tracy and headed down to the mezzanine, from whence he would be directed to a room to meet Tracy in person for the first time and propose to her. And it didn’t feel at all like a death sentence. Not in the slightest.

A member of the crew met him at the mezzanine, as promised, and led him to a tastefully decorated room set with rows of white folding chairs. Flowers and drapery adorned the walls and a small dais capped the room at the far end. Pillars punctuated the aisles between the chairs and the walls, no doubt to make the space feel smaller and more intimate, less like a corporate conference room. The massive film cameras and black-clad crew members sprinkled throughout ruined the entire effect, of course. And with no windows to the outside world, Aziraphale was beginning to feel like a caged zoo animal. He had no idea how he was going to pull off a credible imitation of a man in love enough to propose. 

A small door nearly hidden in the interior wall near the dais opened and a beautiful woman with copper curls and a bright smile entered, holding her arms out to Aziraphale as if they’d known each other all their lives, as if they were family.

Aziraphale bit back an aching sob and launched himself at her, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Oh, love, shush, now. It’ll be alright,” she said in the familiar voice Aziraphale now found comforting beyond measure. “You’ll see. It’ll be alright.”

He let her go then, and they sat in the nearest two chairs, talking for a solid hour. Or rather, Aziraphale did most of the talking, while Tracy clucked in sympathy or tutted in umbrage on his behalf.

“And what about Crowley?” she asked as he’d started to wind down.

“Crowley?” He hadn’t brought up Crowley once during the last hour, though were he being honest, the specter of the man had hovered at the edges of the conversation the entire time.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice your last-minute leaderboard change.”

“I’ve decided I want to marry you,” he said, very consciously avoiding looking at any of the cameras. “You are smart and funny and kind and everything I’d want in a wife.” He winced slightly at his slip— _I would want_ , not _I want_ —but it was true. As enjoyable as Anathema’s company would have been, Tracy had a depth of understanding about the world and people that he needed in a woman who would take him as husband. “Tracy, will you marry me?”

He didn’t get down on one knee as he’d planned, and the request was more authentic for it.

Tracy studied him for a long moment. “Are you sure that’s what you want, Aziraphale?”

“Yes,” he said, sure of his choice, though his heart twisted painfully in his chest.

“Then alright,” she replied, squeezing his hand and giving him a sad, sympathetic smile. “I will.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, unable to bring himself to do anything more.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Thank me after our wedding,” she said, pulling him in for another hug, as the cameras clicked and rolled around them.

* * *

Crowley paced back and forth in his new room, his thoughts jumbled and chaotic. Sandalphon had refused to reinstate Anathema on Aziraphale’s leaderboard, stating very irritatingly that it was _against the rules_. As if any aspect of this show followed any of the rules of psychological and emotional attachment between humans. Apparently, show rules are the only rules that matter. 

At any rate, Sandalphon _did_ make the excellent point that it wouldn’t serve any purpose to put Anathema back on Aziraphale’s leaderboard, unless Crowley was intending to drop Anathema himself, and therefore forfeit the entire game. And that observation sent Crowley directly into a panic, wherein he yielded the battle to Sandalphon with a two-fingered salute and went to pack his things.

He’d tried to talk to Aziraphale before the van picked them up, but Aziraphale stuck close to the other contestants, refusing to be drawn into private conversation. And once in the van, there was no possibility of privacy at all. Crowley was angry and worried, and the last thing he wanted was to end his friendship with Aziraphale on such a fraught note…to never see Aziraphale again after… 

No. He would fix this. He would marry Anathema, win the contest, rebuild his joke shop, and _force_ Aziraphale to talk to him. Just _talk_ to him. That’s all he wanted. That’s all he would let himself want. He’d never be able to drink around Aziraphale, that was obvious. But he could be a decent, friend-like human being. He could have all of it. Everything would work out, if he could just _talk_ to him.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, indicating it was time to meet the overlords at the mezzanine. Oddly, he wasn’t in the least nervous about meeting book-girl face to face. He didn’t much care what she looked like, and he didn’t think he looked particularly objectionable in his three-piece suit that he’d hardly ever had occasion to wear, and so was still pretty new looking. He’d even combed his hair for the big reveal. He scoffed at his reflection once more for good measure and then left the room to find the minions that would take him to his bride to be.

The room they brought him to was frilly and cold. He didn’t much like it, and he certainly didn’t like all the cameras and people gearing up to spy on his intimate moment. What a complete nightmare. But when Anathema entered from a side door, he had to admit she was absolutely stunning in her long green dress with black-lace bodice up to her throat. Her round glasses, while prim and old-fashioned, fit her features and personality perfectly. And the eyes behind them regarded him with humor and curiosity. She didn’t appear afraid or hesitant at all.

“I suppose you have a question for me?” she said after a brief, somewhat stiff, hug.

“I do,” he said, and her eyes twinkled at him knowingly as she crossed her arms and waited.

He’d been practicing. He had the ring he’d picked out for her a week ago. It wasn’t much, because he couldn’t afford much, but he felt confident that she would like it.

He cleared his throat and knelt, feeling the cameras rolling all around them. He wondered briefly if he’d ever get over the feeling of being watched constantly, but then put the thought out of his mind as he focused his attention on the task before him.

He opened his mouth to speak…and nothing came out. He tried again and had to cough when all he could manage was a dry rasp.

“Cat got your tongue?” Anathema said with that infernal, mischievous _knowing_.

Satan bless it, he _would_ accomplish the _one task_ he needed to in order to get everything else he wanted. Why was he having such a hard time with this?

“I…I… W-will…?”

Gah! What was his problem? It was a simple question. Four words. Four measily words. But they would not come, no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was book-girl standing in front of him, rather than the person his brain kept insisting should be there instead.

Finally, Anathema took pity on him, grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, and pulled him back up to standing. 

“You can’t say it, can you?” she said, straightening his tie. “Any idea why that might be?”

“I…I…”

She sighed, planting her hands on his chest and peering up at him without a wit of guile in her expression.

“You have to choose,” she said. “Be brave enough to pick—”

And before she could finish the sentence, a memory surfaced. A recent memory. A memory of a weird conversation about astrological signs that had made no sense at the time.

“—the wrong person,” Crowley finished for her, eyes wide. “Tracy said…the wrong person...”

Anathema smiled proudly at him like he’d just won a spelling bee. “Go,” she said gently.

At that moment, Sandalphon barged into camera view, seemingly out of nowhere.

“If you leave, Crowley, it will be counted as a proposal rejection, and you will be disqualified from the contest.”

But Crowley was too ecstatic, too anxious, to be deterred.

He ignored Sandalphon entirely and bent to kiss Anathema on the cheek. “Excuse me, but there is somewhere else I really need to be right now.”

“Naturally,” she said with a smile.

At that, Crowley set off at a jog for the door. He had no idea where to find the angel, but he _would_ , and he’d have to hurry. He was beyond nervous. He kept running into things like doors and chairs and random walls that leapt out of nowhere. And in the back of his mind, he felt the cameras still rolling, watching him with a cold, judgmental lens as crew members trailed in his wake. 

He tried several rooms, interrupting Hastur’s proposal at one point. With a curse for an apology, he carried on his search.

He finally found Aziraphale lingering on a veranda overlooking the sea. The fading light glinted off his creamy curls as he leaned against the stone railing, staring wistfully over the waves, his tie untied, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. He looked uncharacteristically open and sad, and Crowley nearly melted into a puddle of burning sulphur with desire…and-and love… _love_. Because yes, he could have everything. He couldn’t have the joke shop, but he could have Aziraphale. And Aziraphale…was…everything.

The sound of tripods opening and the crew discussing lighting angles tipped off Aziraphale that he was no longer alone, and he turned. Though when he saw Crowley, he startled, clearly not expecting him.

As if on autopilot, Crowley walked over to Aziraphale, unable to take his eyes off the angel’s face. He wasn’t smiling. He looked worried. And that bothered Crowley to no end. He never wanted Aziraphale to worry about anything ever again. He wanted to take care of him, to watch over him, to provide him with anything he could ever want or need. He needed Aziraphale to be happy. Whatever it took. Aziraphale was it for him. Aziraphale would always come first.

“What are you doing here?” the angel asked.

“This is bullshit,” was the first thing out of Crowley’s mouth. Damn it. That’s not what he’d meant to say at all. “I mean, the show is bullshit. The game. I don’t want any of it. I just want _you_.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard and licked his lips. “Crowley, there are cameras everywhere. You can’t mean—”

“I do. I do mean it. Let’s go off together. Just you and me.” He captured Aziraphale’s hands in his, pulling him a few inches closer. “We don’t have to do this.”

“B-but the prize money, the joke shop. You can’t just give all that up for me. I’m not…I’m not…”

Aziraphale tugged lightly at Crowley’s hold but not hard enough to pull his hands free.

“You are,” Crowley said, though he wasn’t completely sure where the angel had been heading with that sentence.

“But…but…”

For the second time that day, Crowley knelt on the ground. Stone this time, too, which was definitely not comfortable. He hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t keep him in that position for long.

“Aziraphale Z. Fell,” he said, heart in his throat. “I know this is asking...well, a bloody lot actually. And I’ve got fuck all to offer anyone, let alone you. But I-I can’t… I don’t want to go through the rest of time knowing you’re out there and not... I want to share it all _with you_ . When the joke shop burned down, I just—I wanted _you_. Do you… Would you consider...? Hang it all. I’m not any bloody good at this. Just... Come with me.”

“I…I…” Aziraphale clung desperately to Crowley’s hands. He was trembling almost violently, and the conflict in his expression was clear as anything. But his eyes…his beautiful blue eyes skewered Crowley with complete reciprocation. So much so, that Crowley dared hope…

“I—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know! I'm sorry. Please come scream at me in the comments, or on [tumblr](https://miraworos.tumblr.com/). Or if you prefer, on discord (my handle is miraworos#2148). We will commiserate over these absolute morons together.
> 
> Ecstatic thanks to [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/) for the beautiful, mindblowing art!! And there's even _more_ fabulous art to come in the last two chapters. That's right, I said two! I'd planned for this story to be 11 chapters, but it appears there's one more that wants to come out, so we're not quite done yet.
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with this story so far!! Please don't give up, the happily ever after is coming, I promise.


	10. Church Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are still knee-deep in Week 4, picking up where we left off mid-proposals. Nothing has been decided, but it won't be long now...

“I—”

Aziraphale couldn’t seem to make his mouth work, despite his mind whirling over ninety miles per hour. Crowley…wanted him? Was this some sort of dream? Would he wake up any second with the sweetest, sharpest sensation of loss? Was it a joke, from the master jokester himself, in some sort of convoluted bid for viewer votes? Was Anathema in on it?

“But…why me?”

“Listen, I know your family did a number on you, but you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, up to and including the joke shop, and—do you mind if I stand up? My knees are killing me.”

Aziraphale felt himself nod, though he couldn’t swear to having made the effort to do so. It was an almost out-of-body experience. Was this real? It couldn’t be real. Was this Gabriel’s doing? To somehow test his resolve? It would fit with Aziraphale’s past experience of his brother. He wouldn’t put such an elaborate plot past Gabriel in the slightest. But he couldn’t see Crowley aligning with Gabriel. His loathing was too instantaneous and visceral to be for show.

“Angel, ever since you stepped off the bus..and you-you smiled at the driver, I’ve just… I’ve been captivated. And I tried to ignore it, to deny it, to focus on the game. And then, when you kissed me, I—”

“Crowley, _stop_. You can’t say these things. You’ll be disqualified. What about Anathema?”

“Anathema understands. Tracy understands. Hell, even Newt understands.”

“What do you mean, ‘Tracy understands’?”

“She told me at the very beginning, that I needed to be brave enough to choose the wrong person. You’re it. You’re the wrong—I mean, the right, person. I’ve fallen for you.”

“N-no. I never wanted you to fall. You can’t question how things are all the time. You don’t know…you don’t…”

Aziraphale was breathing fast, suffocating with fear. Fear for Crowley, fear for himself. And what about Tracy?

“I’ve already proposed to Tracy. She said yes, I…” He shook his head, trying in vain to clear it. His thoughts were so muddled. He needed to do the right thing, the _good_ thing. What was the good thing? And why didn’t he know?

Gabriel was right about him. He needed guidance. He was an ineffectual mess.

“I can’t, Crowley. I can’t. My family. Tracy. I’m not…good. I need to be better.”

“Your family can piss off,” Crowley argued, his voice thick with emotion. “You think that if you do this, you’ll earn their acceptance? That won’t happen.”

“It’s not their fault I’m like this. If I just try harder … .”

“They don’t love you, Aziraphale. Not the way they’re supposed to. But I…I do.”

Every protest out of Crowley’s mouth was another thorn in Aziraphale’s heart, not because Aziraphale didn’t want to hear it, but because he so desperately longed for it to be true. So much so that he dare not let himself believe it. You couldn’t make a thing happen just by wishing for it. Life didn’t work that way.

“We’re…not meant to… We’re on opposite sides.”

“We’re on our own side, angel. There are no rules but what we agree to.”

But there _were_ rules, Aziraphale was certain of that. He’d been chained by them his entire life. People couldn’t just say rules didn’t exist, and then _poof_ , they’d disappear. Rules existed for a reason.

“There is no _our side_ ,” Aziraphale whispered. “Not any more.”

Crowley looked shocked to his core, as if Aziraphale had slapped him, and the light inside Aziraphale went out. He tore his hands from Crowley’s grasp and rushed away like a coward, ignoring the cameras as they swung around to capture his hasty departure. Vultures. Feeding off the misery of all living things around them. 

Aziraphale shuddered and sobbed as quietly as he could all the way back to his room. When he reached it, he burst through the door and then turned immediately to slam and lock it. Then he whirled and pressed his back into the solid wood of the door, tears streaming down his face. 

How could Crowley just...just _ask_ him? In front of _everyone_. Like it was nothing. Like choosing Aziraphale wouldn’t ruin Crowley’s entire life! Aziraphale could never rank his heart above everything else, like nothing else mattered. But Crowley… Crowley had. Crowley...loved him. Or at least cared about him. And despite the terror, a small part of his heart sang with it.

_Oh, God, what a mess…_

Aziraphale sat down on his bed, wiping his wet face with his hands, and he didn’t leave his room again until the morning.

* * *

Crowley packed his things and departed the competition in a numb haze. He could feel the ocean of pain just beneath the crust of ice he’d laid over it in order to be able to function well enough to get back…home. No, not home. The joke shop. The burned-out, obliterated joke shop that he now had no money to rebuild. Beez was going to kill him.

 _He’d lost him…_ He slammed the door on that line of thinking. He couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. 

Crowley tossed his suitcase into the car that was waiting for him at the entrance of the oceanside events venue that now topped his most-hated-places list. He swore as he bumped his head getting into the backseat. A single camera was following him out, but he paid it no mind. What did it matter now? The only thing that really mattered was the phrase caroming around in his head: _There is no_ _our side_.

A prickling at his eyes was the sole indication of the floodwaters rising inside him. But he wouldn’t alter his choice for anything. It had been the only one he could make. And the angel had made the only one _he_ could make. It was no one’s fault—just the way it was.

He stared out the window the entire car trip back to London, his mind completely blank. He wouldn’t allow himself to relive either the kiss or the argument. He couldn’t hurt himself more by analyzing every nuance of their interaction, searching in vain for a way he could have made things turn out differently. He needed to focus on moving forward until he could survive looking back.

So when he arrived at Beez’s, he stowed his stuff and headed straight for the joke shop, or what was left of it anyway. The cleaners were already there, doing a piss-poor job of it. Crowley picked up a shovel and a mask and went to work alongside them. He needed to be doing _something_. Anything to prevent him from dwelling too long on the smile he would never get to see again. 

“Crowley, what happened?” Beez buzzed in his ear some hours later.

Crowley ignored them. He was busy working, not thinking.

“Talk to me, damn it.” Beez wrested the shovel away from Crowley’s hands to make him stop.

“I fucked it up, alright? I fell in love and fucked it all up.” He pressed soot-smeared hands to his face to keep tears from leaking out.

Beez sighed heavily, tossing the shovel to the floor with a clang.

“You’re such a moron,” they said. “Only you would actually _fall in love_ on a dating show.”

Crowley almost chuckled, a bit of hysteria bubbling up in his chest. Beez rolled their eyes and pulled out their mobile. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this, because it’ll get your hopes all up, when really it’s only temporary good news, considering the joke shop is now a tar pit.”

“Good news?” Crowley said, raising his eyebrow to his hairline to indicate the extremity of his doubt.

“It’s last month’s profit-and-loss. Look, it isn’t red anymore.”

“What?” Crowley peered over Beez’s shoulder at the awful rigid stoicism of the spreadsheet on their phone. The numbers were indeed in the black.

“Up until yesterday, your celebrity alone was bringing in customers by the wagonload. Had to hire a temp to keep up. You know I don’t do customer service.”

“Right, ‘course not,” Crowley said, a grin playing at the edges of his lips. 

It _was_ good news, or rather it had been good news. Now that there was no shop, the profits would be sucked into overdue bills and that would be that. But it was nice to know people had cared. Or rather, some people had cared. Not the important ones—one, really—but some.

“Might be worth trying again?” Beez ventured.

“With what capital? No bank is going to lend to me on my celebrity alone. I have no assets.”

“We could put up the Bentley as collateral.”

“No, we are absolutely _not_ putting up your vintage car as collateral for any loan, let alone an iffy one.”

“It’s not as if I have any other income options here either," Beez said, leaning against the windowsill dejectedly, hands in pockets.

Crowley joined them, figuring it hardly mattered if he finished stripping the store that day. It’s not like he had anywhere to be or a certain angel waiting to see him, as he’d once dared dream for one fragile moment.

“I know,” he told Beez. “Sorry.”

“You can’t help being an idiot, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Could still try selling your arse on the street corner.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Could probably raise my rates since I’ve been on telly.”

“Now, you’re thinking,” Beez said and patted his arm, somehow managing to convey consolation and condescension in the same gesture.

Picking up the shovel, Crowley started working again. Beez tried to tempt him to at least take a break, using an equal measure of insults and inducements, but Crowley much preferred aching muscles over an aching heart and decided in favor of manual labor. He eventually went back to Beez’s flat and crashed, still completely covered in soot and sweat, directly onto Beez’s couch. 

He woke up early the following morning, sore and exhausted and unable to sink back into oblivion. Giving up sleep as a lost cause, he went straight back to the joke shop, bypassing breakfast entirely, and began work again at dawn. It was too early even for the cleaners, which meant he was all alone when he made an unusual discovery.

While sifting through a particularly gnarly pile of black cinders, he saw the edge of what had once been a piece of fabric. It was, or at least had been, a shade of lavender that seemed oddly familiar.

He shoved the bulk of the burnt stuff aside with the shovel, then bent to scrape through the smaller bits with his hands. When he’d cleared enough of the detritus, he pinched the scrap between finger and thumb and lifted it from the floor. As he pulled, a long swath of fabric revealed itself. 

It was a scarf. A _purple_ ... _scarf._

“That motherfucker,” Crowley said, launching himself to his feet. He immediately stormed out of the joke shop and rushed back to the flat.

“Beez!” he shouted as he burst through the door.

“What the fuck, Crowley?” they said, blinking tiredly as they shuffled out of the kitchen in their bathrobe.

“I need the Bentley. Right the fuck now.”

* * *

Aziraphale floated down the aisle on unbelieving feet. It all seemed so unlikely. But there he was, standing on the dais with the minister, gazing only half-seeing at the white folding chairs filled with assorted people he barely knew, dressed to the nines and sporting slightly uncomfortable smiles.

Tracy, wearing the loveliest white dress with a train stretching out behind her, walked with grace and stateliness up to join him. No one else had accompanied her, so she handed her bouquet of orchids and lilies to the cameraman off to the side.

His heart pounding in his ears, Aziraphale reached out and took her gloved hands in his. He couldn’t see her through the veil, but he could smell her perfume and sensed her accepting smile. This was the right thing to do. He knew it was. And yet every part of him besides his brain quailed and begged him to flee before what he was about to do could not be undone.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

The minister droned on, but Aziraphale heard none of it. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Tracy’s veil. He heard over and over in his head Crowley saying, “Let’s go off together. Just you and me,” and he was starting to sweat.

“Do you, Aziraphale, take Tracy to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Before Aziraphale could even think, he uttered the fateful words, “I do.”

“And do you, Tracy, take Aziraphale to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” Tracy said in her sweet, whimsical voice.

“You may kiss the bride,” the minister said and stepped back.

Obediently, Aziraphale lifted Tracy’s veil, expecting to behold the same dear face he’d seen for the first time the day before. But instead he saw…

“Sandalphon! What the Hell is—”

 _Pound, pound, pound_.

“Oi, sleeping beauty,” Sandalphon said. “Wake up. You can’t have a wedding without a wedding.”

Aziraphale snapped awake. He was still laying in bed, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. What time was it? What _day_ was it?

“What? Who?”

 _Pound, pound, pound_.

The bedroom door rattled in its frame.

“It’s time to get married!” Sandalphon said with false brightness from the other side of the door.

Aziraphale groaned and looked at the clock: 8:30am.

Good Heavens. His appointment with Tracy was at nine!

He leapt out of bed, ignoring the dread in the pit of his stomach as he raced through his ablutions and grooming routine. His hands shook as he buttoned up his starched white waistcoat and tied his silver bow tie. He’d worn his fair share of tuxes over the course of his life, but he’d never felt as completely constricted as he did in this one. 

At ten till the hour, he marched himself downstairs to the mezzanine for a second time in as many days, but this time, there was no crew member to meet him. This time, it was someone else.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, courteously but coldly. He needed all his faculties about him to make it through this next half hour. He couldn’t bear the idea of a brotherly lecture on top of it.

“Ah, sunshine,” Gabriel said, with his trademark condescending grin. “You look…well…appropriately dressed for the occasion.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” Aziraphale said tightly. He wouldn’t let Gabriel get to him. Not now. He couldn’t help recalling the look on Gabriel's face when Crowley punched him, and feeling a tiny measure of satisfaction at the memory.

“I will be your best man for the ceremony, of course. Mostly to make sure you don’t get cold feet,” he said with a knowing wink that made Aziraphale wither with impotent rage.

There was not a camera in sight, which left Aziraphale feeling oddly adrift. They’d been his constant companions these last several weeks.

“We’re alone,” he observed aloud without meaning to.

“Yes, I asked Sandalphon for a moment of privacy with you before the big event.”

“What for?”

“I just wanted to pass along Mother’s congratulations, since she couldn’t be here herself. Business, you know. No rest for the good.”

Aziraphale swallowed the hurt. He hadn’t expected her to come, of course, but knowing that she could have and chose not to, especially when this entire enterprise had been her particular wish, stung quite a lot.

“She also wanted me to say…” Gabriel lowered his voice, drawing Aziraphale close, as if to pass along some untoward gossip. “Though she is less than excited about your choice in wife, she will let it slide on the condition that you come fully into the fold.”

“Meaning she wants me to give up my bookshop.”

“Now, you’re catching on,” Gabriel said with a slightly too-hard genial punch to the arm.

So he was to lose his freedom and his soul in one fell swoop. He thought he’d at least have some time between the two to recover.

“What if I don’t want to?” he asked, a rather large portion of himself panicking at his own daring. But Crowley’s belief in his worth seemed to have imbued him with some strange power to speak his thoughts.

“You don’t have a choice, brother. As I’m sure you know.”

“Why not? Why don’t I have a choice?”

“Are you…are you questioning me?”

“I am,” Aziraphale said, raising his chin in some heretofore impossible act of defiance. “I want to keep my bookshop. And I want you to show my soon-to-be-wife the respect she deserves.”

Gabriel laughed uproariously, clapping Aziraphale hard on the shoulder. “Oh, lord, Aziraphale. I always forget how funny you can be. Truly. If you were at all charismatic, I’d tell you to give comedy a try. Only as a hobby, though, of course.”

Aziraphale stepped decisively away from Gabriel, his patience almost at an end.

“I don’t want you to be my best man. And I will keep my bookshop. I am marrying Tracy, as you decreed I must take a wife. But that is the end of it, Gabriel. I won’t have you breathing down my neck the rest of my life.”

He felt a sense of calm radiating out from the very center of his being. He’d said what he needed to say, and he felt confident that he could withstand the fallout from it. Where had this new strength come from? Was it Crowley’s love for him that had grounded and fortified him? Was it Crowley who had finally convinced him he was a worthwhile person without his family, without borrowing anyone else’s worth to shore up his own?

Apparently, Gabriel’s thoughts were running a similar course, as the next thing he said was,

“This is all that miserable snake’s fault, isn’t it? He made you think you were somehow defensible. But he, and you, are completely mistaken. You are nothing without your family. Nothing.”

“I am a bookshop proprietor. A friend. And about to be a husband. All without any of you.”

“Your parasitic _bookshop_ is as good as dead without us. And even if you were able to somehow keep it afloat without our regular infusions of cash, I wouldn’t let this sedition stand without repercussions.”

“What _exactly_ do you think you could do? The bookshop operates under my name as sole proprietor. Yes, I might struggle to make ends meet. But I’d rather try and fail than take another penny from you.”

“You’re not hearing me, brother,” he said, his voice chilling considerably as he took a half step closer to loom over Aziraphale’s shorter frame. “I would not let—the bookshop—stand.”

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered to a stop. He actually meant he would physically destroy the bookshop. Which…wait…did that mean…? Had _he_ been the arsonist behind the destruction of the joke shop? No. No, that was preposterous. It couldn’t be! His family was terrible to him, but they were unfailingly _good_. Weren’t they?

“I see by your tediously overwrought expression that you’re catching on. Excellent. Now, why don’t we put all this unpleasantness behind us and go get you hitched?”

“You…you burned the joke shop, didn’t you?” Aziraphale managed to squeak out.

“What?”

“Crowley’s joke shop. His novelty store. You destroyed it, didn’t you?” As the words leaked out, Aziraphale’s voice grew stronger. With every passing second, he became more convinced the accusation was the truth.

“It was already a lost cause,” Gabriel said with a smirk of indifference. “Let’s just say, I helped it become what it was always meant to be.”

Aziraphale grew lightheaded, overwhelmed. And yet he’d never seen anything so clearly in his entire life. Gabriel wasn’t good but harsh. He was _fully evil_ , and had been all along. Aziraphale had been wrong…about everything. And Crowley had tried to tell him. He’d tried to get past the years of conditioning, and Aziraphale hadn’t let him.

Before he even knew what he was doing, let alone could stop himself, Aziraphale balled his hand into a fist and threw all his weight behind a swing at Gabriel’s jaw. His fist connected with Gabriel’s face, and Gabriel went down like a felled tree. The righteous fury that suffused him calmed somewhat at the small measure of restitution, though he knew he would likely wrestle with guilt over his act of hostility later.

As Gabriel pushed himself up to his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it, Aziraphale swept back, lowering his fists. 

“I am no longer your responsibility. Or your family, Gabriel Fell. You will leave me and mine alone, or I will reveal your crime to the authorities.”

Then he turned his back resolutely on Gabriel and headed towards the door. He had to find Crowley, to apologize, to do whatever he could to make up for his own shortsightedness and his brother’s transgressions. 

But he didn’t get far before he remembered.

“Oh, good lord. I forgot about Tracy!”

He reversed direction and hurried back to the chapel room, where he’d been expected nearly five minutes prior. He burst through the double doors and rushed up the aisle to where Tracy was standing on the dais, exactly as she had been in his dream.

“Tracy,” he gasped when he reached her, capturing her hands in his. “I am so sorry, my dear, but I cannot go through with this.”

Tracy laughed and raised her veil, not a shred of hurt or resentment or even surprise in her lovely eyes.

“Of course you can’t. Go get him, love. And when you do, don’t ever let go again.”

“I promise,” he said fervently, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Then he rushed back out the room he’d only just entered and headed outside, making a beeline for the nearest town car. 

“London, please,” he said to the driver. “Quick as you can.”

* * *

Crowley raced the Bentley down the A24 towards Littlehampton. He had no expectations beyond telling Aziraphale the truth. He knew that Aziraphale might, and very likely would, _still_ choose his family over every other consideration. But Crowley couldn’t let this be personal anymore. 

He’d made his proposal about himself, about what he wanted. He hadn't actually stopped to consider what might be best for Aziraphale. He’d tried to cajole the angel into giving him what he wanted.

This time was different. It was about what was good for Aziraphale. He wouldn’t ask Aziraphale to reconsider his proposal. He wouldn’t even bring it up. This was about Gabriel, and the lengths to which he’d go to keep Aziraphale under his control. It was still Aziraphale’s decision whether or not to marry Tracy for his family’s sake, but he deserved to have all the relevant information when making his choice.

Aziraphale might even decide to leave both Crowley and his family behind and run off with just Tracy. Crowley had to prepare himself for the very real possibility that no matter what, he still might never see the angel again after today.

He pulled into the venue’s car park and drove the Bentley right up to the entrance. He pulled the handbrake and leapt out of the car, just as he saw Aziraphale’s creamy head duck into the back seat of a town car ahead of him.

“Angel!” he called, but the car door had already shut.

He dove back into the Bentley, slamming his own door behind him.

Then Aziraphale flung open his door and leapt out of the town car again whirling towards the Bentley.

Crowley's heart stung at the anguished look on Aziraphale's face. Then he threw open his own door and popped out again, just in time to catch an armful of angel.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley! So incredibly sorry. I was just coming to find you. I have to tell you—”

“Shh, angel, it’s okay. Calm down. Tell me what’s happened.”

Aziraphale pulled out of Crowley’s arms, backing up a few steps and looking at him with watering eyes.

“It was—it was Gabriel… I’m so—it’s all my fault,” he said, thrusting his hands into his hair in distress.

“Gabriel burned down my shop,” Crowley finished for him as he gently took Aziraphale’s wrist and tugged him closer. “I know.”

“You knew?”

“Not until this morning. I was cleaning up, and I found the pillock's scarf. The one he was wearing the day I punched him.”

“You— And—”

“And I came back here to tell _you_ , because I wanted you to know everything, before…”

“Before Tracy.”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you. If you still want your family—”

“I want you,” Aziraphale said, pressing forward into Crowley’s arms again. “I-I-I cannot excuse their behavior. If you never wanted to see me again, I would understand.”

“Aziraphale, you can’t—” Crowley stopped himself, reframed what he wanted to say. “I don’t blame you. I would never—”

“But what if they— I couldn’t bear it if—”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale into his arms, comfortingly he hoped. “Remember what you said to me in the turret room the night my shop burned down?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I-I said a lot of things.”

“Not that many,” Crowley teased. “I remember there being more engaging activities than talking going on at one point.”

Aziraphale trembled in his arms, but he felt warm, and he settled in closer.

“You said,” Crowley continued, “‘we’ll work it out.’ You even promised.”

“I did? Oh, right. I did.”

“And we will. I’m promising _you_ , now. We’ll work it out.”

Crowley pulled back a little then, to assess Aziraphale’s expression, to see if he was giving too much or not enough. But Aziraphale took the opportunity to tilt his head and capture Crowley’s lips in a fully public, completely thorough kiss. 

Crowley couldn’t be entirely sure what happened next, as his brain had shut down at once. All he knew was that he was kissing an angel, that he never wanted to _stop_ kissing said angel, and that if anyone, _anyone_ tried to forcibly take him away from Crowley, that person would have a very difficult time breathing through anything but a tube.

“I love you,” Crowley said when they broke apart for breath. He rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s and inhaled his fresh linen and lavender scent.

“And I you,” Aziraphale said back and touched Crowley’s lips with a cautious finger. “I’m far from perfect, and I honestly don’t know why you… Well. But I love you with all my heart.”

Crowley opened his eyes, pulling Aziraphale in tight again. “You _are_ perfect. You are perfect for me.”

Only then did he notice that the cameras seemed to have gotten wind of the drama unfolding on their doorstep. But he honestly didn’t give a fuck. Let them record all they wanted. It didn’t change a thing.

A sudden urge to get Aziraphale home and settled, whatever ‘home’ and ‘settled’ looked like, welled up in his chest. So he finally pressed Aziraphale back, dropping his arms, though it was difficult to let go.

“No expectations, no pressure, but…do you want to leave?" Crowley asked. "I can take you anywhere. Anywhere you want to go.”

“I should like to go to the bookshop, if you wouldn’t mind. Pick up a few things, and…then…” Aziraphale finished almost shyly.

“And then, would you like to…come over?”

Aziraphale nodded an affirmative, and a smile spread across his face that Crowley had only seen once before—the day they met. It was the halo smile. It was directed at him. And it was the most glorious sensation he’d ever known.

“Go and get your things, angel.”

“Wait for me?” the angel asked.

“Always,” Crowley answered and meant it.


	11. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The show may be over, but there are still a few surprises in store! Tune in to find out what happens to Aziraphale and Crowley now that they've finally come together in the penultimate chapter of our story...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter in which we earn our E rating, folks. And, boy, do we earn it. For those who'd prefer to bypass the smut, I've included a link that looks like this: (x) just before the explicit content begins. Click the x to go to the next bit of non-explicit content, and the rest of the chapter is of the T variety from there on.
> 
> Thanks to absolutely EVERYONE who has read and commented. I know I'm behind on responding, but I absolutely will, I promise. You guys are my kindred spirits, and I <333 every single one of you. Thanks so much for the encouragement and support. I couldn't have done this without you!! *group glomp*

The drive from Littlehampton back to London was both quiet and full. Aziraphale never once dropped Crowley’s hand, and Crowley wasn’t sure he’d be able to relinquish Aziraphale’s, even if the angel had tried to let go. They talked, of course, a lot of talk, revisiting what had happened over the last several weeks, ironing out misunderstandings and setting the record straight about when certain feelings had begun to emerge.

Crowley had been shocked to learn, for instance, that the angel had been as attracted to him on first glance as Crowley had been to Aziraphale. 

“But...but I thought... I mean, weren’t you just startled?” Crowley asked, a pleasant warmth building in his chest. “Why else would you say that?”

Aziraphale laughed self-consciously. “Well, look at you!”

“What do you mean, ‘look at me’? I look like a ginger scarecrow in thrift-store clothing.”

“Oh, stop. You know exactly what I mean. You are objectively attractive and-and magnetic. It’s not fair to compare our experiences at all.”

“I beg your pardon. I was a wreck for you before you even knew I existed.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”

“It’s true! You got off the bus, turned and smiled at the driver with that..." He gestured wildly at Aziraphale's face with their joined hands while rooting around in his brain for an adequate analogy. "...that ray of iridescent divinity, and it just skewered me. Haven’t been anything like myself since.”

“Are you saying, I’ve just disqualified myself from all that prize money for a complete stranger?” Aziraphale teased.

“I’m saying that you make me a better person just by allowing me to bask in your angelic presence.”

“Good lord. It was just a smile. Just like anyone else smiles.”

But Crowley raised Aziraphale's hand to his lips and kissed the back of it tenderly, taking his eyes off the road just long enough to do so.

“It isn’t, though. It’s when I first started calling you ‘angel’ in my head. And it was all of what, ten minutes?, before it slipped out.”

Aziraphale inhaled audibly, a tiny gasp of understanding. Then he’d graced Crowley with another of the halo smiles and made Crowley’s insides glow with reflected radiance.

When they pulled up to the bookstore, Crowley offered to come in and help Aziraphale gather his things. Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, and then finally nodded, seeming uncertain.

“No need to humor me, angel,” Crowley said gently. “If you want to go in alone, just say so.”

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale said. “I’m just…nervous. My shop is a part of me the way the joke shop is a part of you, and I’m afraid that you’ll find it…" He wrinkled his nose. "...boring.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses to stare directly into the angel’s eyes. “I could never, ever in a million years find you boring, angel. Fussy, old-fashioned, and set in your ways, maybe, but that’s part of your charm. Trust me when I say that nothing you could ever do would bore me.”

Aziraphale blushed and huffed at the same time, which was adorable, and Crowley found it extremely difficult not to think of all the things he wanted to do to him when they were finally settled for the night. 

The bookshop was instantly soothing to Crowley. It felt like coming home in a way that his own apartment—when he’d had one—never had. It was cosy and cluttered and soft and well lit, just like its owner.

Crowley loved every inch of it. The worn shelves. The books so old that the lettering on the spines had rubbed off. The doilies on every surface not already covered in books. The sitting room with its faded chair and afghan-draped settee. 

“Would you…would you like some tea?” Aziraphale said, watching Crowley with a nervous expression.

“I would love some tea,” Crowley said, hoping Aziraphale heard the underlying praise of the bookshop in the emphasis he put on the word _love_.

Aziraphale's expression melted into a relieved smile. “I’ll just be a minute.” Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into a back room.

Crowley wandered the shop, not touching anything but admiring everything. Some of the books were in languages that Crowley didn’t even recognize. How could someone so obviously brilliant be in love with a degenerate like Crowley? Surely, the fates were having a good laugh at their expense.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale said, handing Crowley a white mug with wings where a handle should be, because of course he did. 

Then he wandered upstairs to his flat to pack another bag. A few minutes later, he returned, carrying a tartan carpet bag to add to his luggage already in the Bentley.

“Be honest. How many books are in that bag instead of clothes?”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled as he said. “Well, my dear, I figured I may not be needing very many clothes over the next few days. Was I wrong in that assumption?”

Crowley’s jaw literally dropped as all the blood rushed from his brain to various other parts of his anatomy.

“Ngk…mm…phrr...rrgg…”

“Come along, dear,” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley by his jacket lapel. Crowley followed dumbly in his wake.

But when they’d exited the shop and Aziraphale was locking up, he hesitated again, a frown creasing his features.

“Would you rather we stay here?”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be a good idea,” Aziraphale said regretfully. “Gabriel has a key to the shop, and anyway, after what he did to your place, I wouldn’t trust that he wouldn’t…do something drastic. We’re safer elsewhere for now.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s bag from him. “I’m… I wish…” he started but was unable to find the right words.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, pressing a quick kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “Let’s go. Oh!”

“Oh?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just, I never thought to ask what your living arrangements are. I assumed you had a flat separate from your shop, but clearly _I_ don’t. Should we go to a hotel?”

“Yeah, probably,” he said, pulling out his mobile. “Just gotta text Beez.”

 _Okay to take the Bentley to a hotel for the night?_ he tapped.

_Don’t be stupid. You can’t afford a hotel._

_Can’t afford to stay at his place either. Not safe._

There was a severely long minute of the three dots of doom before the response came through.

_Going to Lucifer’s for the rest of the week/end. Need you to mind the plants._

Lucifer was Beez’s cousin who owned a beach house near Brighton. Crowley nearly teared up at the offer. Beez could be really decent when they wanted to be.

_Just for Satan’s sake, change the sheets before I get home on Monday._

_Will do._

“Come on, angel. I’ve got a place for us. Temporary but comfortable.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, letting Crowley lead the way back to the Bentley.

* * *

Aziraphale followed Crowley into the elevator at an older but well kept block of flats in Mayfair. Aziraphale was a bit nervous. It seemed at the very least presumptuous to spend his first real night with Crowley as something more than roommates, at the home of someone he'd never even met before.

“Crowley, are you sure…?”

“Don’t sweat it, angel. We’ll be house-sitting. Beez is away for the weekend. Or will be, after I hand over the car keys.”

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale said somewhat relieved. He had spent the last month sleeping in the same room as Crowley. Spending last night alone had been awful. He really had no intention of repeating the experiment if he could help it.

They reached the flat door, and Crowley knocked once. The door swung open immediately, and a small-framed, frowny person with black hair glared up at them.

“‘Bout time,” the person said. “You must be Fell.”

“Indeed. Pleased to make your acquaintance…?”

“Beez. Name’s Beez. They/them, if you please. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh, yes. And I must say, I very much appreciate your hospi—”

“Stuff it. We don’t do thanks or thanks-adjacent in this house. Clear?”

“Of course. My apolo—”

“Nope. We don’t do those either.”

“Right. Understood.” Then Aziraphale shut his mouth entirely until he had a better sense of what was permissible to say.

“As for you,” Beez said, turning to Crowley. “No haranguing the ficus. Lost nearly a quarter of its leaves the last time.”

“Got it, boss.”

Beez rolled their eyes and snatched the keys from Crowley’s outstretched hand. Then they stalked off towards the elevator without looking back, duffle bag thrown over their shoulder.

“They are…quite something,” Aziraphale said after Beez disappeared around the corner.

“Wouldn’t have survived this long without them,” Crowley admitted. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale preceded Crowley into the sparsely decorated flat.

“It’s…pristine,” he said, eyeing the sharp lines and hard surfaces with some trepidation. What if his friend’s flat was more to Crowley’s taste than the cluttered old bookshop?

“I think the word you’re looking for is ’severe.’”

“Austere.”

“Pitiless.”

Aziraphale giggled at that. “Pitiless? You do _like_ your friend, don’t you?”

“‘Course, I do. Which is how I know them so well.”

The silence grew as Aziraphale struggled to articulate how to ask for what he wanted. If he were even just a trifle less awkward, he would have an easier time. He could just walk up to Crowley, put his hands on him, kiss him until all question of what he wanted was revealed without his having to say a word. But he had little experience with men—only a few unplanned assignations that ended quickly and meant nothing—and no idea if Crowley would be turned off by his bumbling. He wished that Crowley would make the first move.

“Drink, angel?”

“I-I would love one. Yes, please.”

“Tea?”

“Oh, I don’t suppose you have anything a bit more encouraging?”

“Really? And why might you need encouraging?” Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow.

Aziraphale’s face heated in response.

Crowley laughed. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”

Aziraphale looked for a place to sit, but there was nothing in the room but a giant vintage chair that looked more like a king’s throne. He certainly didn’t feel comfortable sitting there.

“Where shall I put my things?” he called after Crowley, who’d disappeared into the kitchen.

“Hold on for a second, and I’ll show you.”

Aziraphale sighed, frustrated with himself. If only he’d had a plan before running off to find Crowley. Lord, who was he kidding? Any plan he could possibly have concocted would have had few details for this portion of the proceedings.

Crowley returned then with a tumblr of amber liquid in each hand. He passed one to Aziraphale and said,

“Sorry, no wine. Took a chance on whisky.”

“Whisky works, thank you.” 

Crowley cleared his throat and threw back a large swallow of whisky. “Tour?” he said with a wince.

“I’d love that,” Aziraphale said and boldly looped his arm through Crowley’s.

So Crowley led him around the flat, which wasn’t so much spacious as it was spare. But there were plants everywhere, including a forlorn looking ficus that Crowley eyed with some suspicion when they passed it. (x)

Finally, Crowley led him to the one bedroom in the flat, and Aziraphale’s nerves and excitement ratcheted up several notches. Crowley could likely hear his thundering heartbeat by now. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off the man as he rambled on about Heaven knew what—Aziraphale had stopped listening the moment they’d stepped through the door. All he could think about was what happened next, what he desperately wanted to happen next, and did Crowley want that too? He’d never asked. They’d never talked about it. Crowley might have no interest in carnal relations, for all Aziraphale knew. He would have to ask to find out, and yet every time he opened his mouth to do so, no sound came out.

“What do you want to do now, angel? Unpack? Settle in? Read for a bit? I imagine you must be knackered.”

And suddenly all the anxiety fell away. It was as if every lie and insult his family had perpetuated about him over the years, about his preference for men, about his sexual desires, were cast into outer darkness, and all that was left was the light of the truth: that Aziraphale was acceptable just as he was. Crowley had opened the door, had asked him what he wanted to do next, and there was only one answer to that for Aziraphale.

“I’d like to have sex with you. Is that option on the table? Because if not, I probably need to—”

But Crowley was already moving, pushing Aziraphale back against the nearby wall with a crushing, delightfully carnal kiss. A devouring kiss, really, and Aziraphale was more than happy to devour back. 

Crowley growled into Aziraphale’s lips, pressing the entire length of his body against Aziraphale’s. Then he pulled back just enough to fumble with the buttons on Aziraphale’s tuxedo coat. 

“I— Ngk— You can’t say things like that if you want me to maintain any kind of self-control.”

Breathing hard, Aziraphale tilted his head back to give Crowley more access to his throat, which Crowley promptly took advantage of. 

“I am not interested in you maintaining self-control if it keeps you from ah-ahh…”

Aziraphale thunked his head against the wall as Crowley successfully unbuttoned his trousers and slid his hand into them, releasing and caressing Aziraphale’s already hard and aching cock. 

“Alright, angel?”

“Better…better than alright.” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley tightened his grip and stroked backwards toward his body and then out again, building a rhythm. “Crowley, Crowley, _please_ , oh, God, I-I need more.”

“More?” Crowley said, his voice guttural with lust. “Who knew you were such a hedonist?” He stroked Aziraphale’s shaft a few more times for good measure. “What do you want, angel? Tell me. In detail.”

Aziraphale felt more than saw Crowley’s shiver of anticipation, and decided to file that little discovery away for further exploration. Crowley liked dirty talk, did he? Aziraphale could very well indulge him in that.

“I want you to fuck me into the mattress. Is that enough detail for you?”

With a moan against Aziraphale’s collarbone, Crowley pulled back a pace and divested himself of all of his clothes, while Aziraphale, with a bit more hesitancy, did the same. He tried to shove his fears of inadequacy to the back of his mind, ignoring the decades of Gabriel’s jibes echoing in his ears. Crowley knew what he looked like, and anyway, he trusted Crowley.

His trust was immediately rewarded by Crowley snatching his wrist the second they were both naked, and peering into his face with concern.

“Where did you go just now?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking anywhere but at Crowley.

“You do,” Crowley insisted. “It was that prat, wasn’t it? What has he got you thinking? Because I can promise you, Aziraphale, it isn’t true, whatever he said.”

“I just— I know I’m not a match for you physically, but I do trust you won’t hurt me, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Crowley inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, backing Aziraphale to the wall again and tilting his chin up so he had no choice but to meet Crowley’s gaze.

“I want you to hear me and believe me when I say this. And I will say it as many times as it takes for it to really sink in. But this time, I want you to pay very careful attention.”

“Crowley, please—”

“You are the most fucking beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“A smile is just a small—”

“It’s more than your smile. It’s your everything. Everything about you is beautiful. Your skin, your hair, your eyes, your voice, your shape, the way you move, everything. I want all of it for as long as you’ll share it with me. Okay?”

With a shuddering breath, Aziraphale nodded.

Then Crowley tugged his chin closer and resumed snogging him senseless, growling possessively as he stroked every exposed inch of skin he could comfortably reach.

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, pulling the man closer still.

“Mmph, you’re strong,” Crowley said against Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel. It’s fucking hot. Crush me again. I want to feel how much you want me.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale said, amused. Then he tightened his grip, hefted Crowley off the floor by a few inches, and manhandled him the last couple of steps to the bed. Then he tossed Crowely on top of it. 

Crowley, who must have been nearly as strong as Aziraphale if not equally so, took Aziraphale down with him, flipping him onto his back as he landed. Then he took charge again, pressing his shaft into Aziraphale’s soft belly as he thrust his hips against Aziraphale’s erection.

The crescendo of pressure inside Aziraphale was building fast, but he didn’t want it to end yet.

“Crowley, wait, stop.”

With a groan Crowley immediately ground to a halt. “Do you— Are you— I-we can stop. If you’re not ready…”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Aziraphale protested. “I am definitely ready, I just— I want you inside me. And I can’t have that if I don’t get my bag.”

“Your bag?”

“I brought supplies.”

“You brought _supplies?_ ” Crowley chuckled, hovering above Aziraphale’s chest. “Confident we were heading in this direction, were you?”

“Well, I like to be prepared,” Aziraphale said, play pouting.

“Oh, I am certainly not complaining.” Crowley clutched Aziraphale closer as he grumbled into his neck. “Go and get your _supplies_ , angel. So I can fuck you into this mattress, as requested.”

So Aziraphale wriggled out from under Crowley and off the bed. He could feel Crowley’s lascivious gaze follow him as he left the room to collect his bag. 

“Errand accomplished,” he said as he returned with the bag, dropping it on the floor near the closet and fishing out the lube and condoms. “Now, where were we?” he said.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist and pulled, spilling the lube and condoms onto the bed next to his head as Aziraphale nearly crashed on top of him.

“Careful, or I really will crush you.”

“I’m not breakable, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, suddenly serious as he gazed deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes. “This isn’t breakable. You’re stuck with me now.”

Aziraphale beamed contentedly, smiling as much of his love as he could at Crowley, at his _lover_ and potentially his _boyfriend_. But first things first.

“Lube,” he demanded, opening the container and applying a generous dollop of the stuff on Crowley’s right hand. “You are right-handed, correct?”

Crowley laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling into the most adorable crow’s feet Aziraphale had ever seen. He wasn’t used to being able to see Crowley’s eyes, and he loved that he was getting unlimited access to such a carefully guarded treasure.

Then Aziraphale opened a condom, pulling it free from the packaging and setting it to the side before he reverently took Crowley’s cock into his mouth.

Crowley gasped, clearly surprised. “Oh _fuck_ Aziraphale. _Fuck_ that feels good.” And he mumbled on incoherently as Aziraphale licked and sucked Crowley to fullness. “Okay! Okay, stop now or I won’t… I won’t…”

Aziraphale sucked hard as he pulled off, grazing the head with his teeth, just to be a bit naughty, and was rewarded by Crowley swearing and squirming wildly underneath him. Then Aziraphale retrieved the condom and rolled it onto a hissing Crowley who was trying very hard to hold still.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, kissing Crowley gently as Crowley repositioned them again, kneeling between Aziraphale’s knees.

“I love you, too,” Crowley said, as he stroked a gentle finger along Aziraphale’s cleft to locate his entrance.

Aziraphale gasped, clutching the black duvet as Crowley breached him, thrusting in with a finger as he stroked Aziraphale’s hip with his other hand.

“Alright, angel?” Crowley asked, his voice ragged. 

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale answered, breathless and nearly incoherent. He pressed down on Crowley’s hand, wanting him desperately. He may even have said as much. His brain no longer appeared connected to his mouth. His libido had taken it over completely. He checked in briefly and heard himself swearing and begging and moaning Crowley’s name as he writhed against the bed. 

Crowley was hardly silent either, moaning in equal measure as he sucked bruises into Aziraphale’s skin, all while working a second finger into Aziraphale, thrusting and twisting and stretching Aziraphale’s opening.

“Crowley, please, _please_ —”

And then Crowley happened to brush against the sensitive area inside of Aziraphale, causing him to shout and arch up off the bed, nearly bucking Crowley off entirely. Instantly, a demonic fire lit in Crowley’s eyes, and he brushed the spot again intentionally, over and over in a devastating rhythm.

Aziraphale shook nearly all the way apart, his cock as achingly hard as it was possible to be. 

“Crowley! Now! I need you inside me now.”

Crowley withdrew his fingers at once. “Whatever you want, angel. I’m yours. I always will be…” and he descended into incoherent rambling as he repositioned himself once again, this time with his cock pressing against Aziraphale’s opening. 

Aziraphale was just aware enough to wiggle himself downward as Crowley guided and pressed himself in, and then all conscious thought left him completely.

“Crowley!” he gasped, as Crowley thrust slowly, so dreadfully, deliciously slowly, all the way in. “Oh, ohhhh…”

“Alright?” Crowley panted. Aziraphale loved him for continually checking in. No one had ever…no one had ever _cared_ enough about him to… _Oh, God, yes._ “Angel?”

What? Oh, he hadn’t said the last part out loud.

“Yes, damn you! God, you feel, you feel sogoodsogood. I need, I need…”

“What? Tell me, I’ll do it,” he said, his voice rigid with control.

“Move…” Aziraphale moaned and shifted. If Crowley wouldn’t move, he’d do it for him.

Cursing, Crowley withdrew a bit and thrust in again, carefully. The sensation nearly choked Aziraphale with renewed need. He was so close. And the stretch and fullness, the very _idea_ of it being _Crowley_ who filled him to completeness, was almost too much to bear. His cock spurted a drizzle of pre-cum at the mere thought.

Crowley drew out again, a bit further this time, causing Aziraphale to gasp with excruciating pleasure as Crowley thrust back in. 

“Moremoreharderpleaseplease…” Tears leaked from Aziraphale’s eyes as he tried valiantly to hold back the tide of his orgasm. He wasn’t ready yet. Not yet! He needed more time to feel this. To feel adored. To feel worshipped. To feel like he belonged to someone who loved him. 

“Anything…Aziraphale…Angel…” Each word punctuated with a thrust so hard, it made Aziraphale’s vision speckle. And yet it wasn’t enough. He needed something more…

“Touch me,” Aziraphale begged, and Crowley greedily complied, grasping Aziraphale’s cock and stroking down hard as he thrust back in.

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried out, eyes squeezed shut as the wave in him built to a tsunami. “Yes! Yes!”

Another stroke, and another, in perfect, blinding sync with each thrust of Crowley’s cock. And then suddenly the tsunami crested and spilled over into a crashing orgasm like Aziraphale had never experienced. 

“Crowley!” he shouted high and loud as his cock erupted, cum spurting over his chest and dribbling onto the duvet. His vision completely whited out and he saw stars, actual stars.

“Oh _fuck_ angel. You’re so beautiful. So goddamned beautiful. And so fucking tight. I can’t—”

Another thrust in as Aziraphale lingered at the highest pinnacle of afterglow. Another thrust as Aziraphale basked in how right it felt, how _amazing_ , to be so possessed by Crowley, to be _his_ , to bring him pleasure. Another thrust in and Aziraphale squeezed every internal muscle he could control, causing another utterly satisfying round of swearing from Crowley as he shuddered and moaned and fell completely to pieces, twitching uncontrollably through his own orgasm as he lay gasping on Aziraphale’s cum-smeared chest.

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said over and over, clutching him close again before even pulling out. 

“I love you, too, darling,” Aziraphale answered, stroking his lover’s soft and rumpled hair. “More than you could possibly know.”

Crowley kissed his belly, licking the salt-sweat from his ribs. “I love you,” he said again. “I think I’ve been in love with you since the first day.”

“That’s silly. How could you possibly have known you loved me on the first day?”

Crowley pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom as Aziraphale watched, eyeing the condom with consideration. They should both get tested. Soon. He wasn’t interested in being with anyone else, and he thought Crowley might feel the same. And he wanted all barriers between them, even this small, necessary one, erased, if possible.

When Crowley returned, he spent several minutes soothing Aziraphale’s tender places with gentle caresses and kisses, to the point where Aziraphale began to feel the initial stirrings of lust already resuming. He would never have his fill of Crowley. He would always crave him. And that thought brought the tiniest slip of anxiety. What if Crowley were lost to him someday? How could he possibly survive, now that he knew what perfect fulfillment felt like? Now that he knew what love actually meant?

“What are you thinking, angel?” Crowley answered, as he left off gently stroking the base of Aziraphale’s balls and now-resting cock. He shifted upward to lie next to Aziraphale, pulling him into his arms. “Your face is so serious.”

“I was, well… That is, I’m not sure what would happen to me if…if you…if I were to…lose you.”

Crowley nuzzled his curls, humming in his chest in the way that always comforted Aziraphale. “You asked how I could have possibly known I loved you on the first day.”

Aziraphale nodded, though he wasn’t sure how the topics connected.

“I knew, because when I saw you, the center of my universe shifted. Your gravitational pull knocked me off course, and my orbit completely changed in that exact moment. You are my binary star. Which means you can’t lose me. It isn’t astronomically possible.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and settled in as close as he could, resting his head against Crowley’s chest so he could hear the _thump-thump_ of his heart and know, _really know_ , that this wasn’t just a dream. That he wouldn’t wake up tomorrow in his beloved but lonely bookshop, never having known Crowley. 

“I love you,” he whispered again, just because he could. And then eventually, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Crowley woke to a stream of early morning sun spearing his eyeballs. He assumed at first that he was in the room at the mansion. But when he moved, he noticed the odd weight pinning down his shoulder, and all at once, he remembered.

 _Aziraphale_.

The angel had chosen him after all, had come home with him, had let him fuck him, had specifically asked for it, in fact.

Aziraphale was everything Crowley had never believed he deserved. And yet he was _here_. In Crowley’s arms, snoozing like the world’s most adorable kitten, which was a bit hard to reconcile with the utterly debauched version of the man from the night before. But they were the same man. And Crowley loved him with his entire heart.

A few minutes later, the sun had moved enough in the sky to settle its light on Aziraphale’s face. He glowed in it like the angel Crowley knew him to be. His nose twitched and he blinked, rubbing his cheek endearingly against Crowley’s arm.

“Crowley?” he said, sounding a touch anxious. Which was a touch more anxious than Crowley would like. How long would it take for Aziraphale to trust that he was safe? That he could wake up, and Crowley would still be there, loving him even more than he had the day before.

“Go back to sleep, angel. It’s early. I’ll get the blinds.”

“I’m not tired,” Aziraphale protested with a yawn. 

“Mmhm,” said Crowley, expressing his doubt. Then he slid out of bed and to the window to lower the blinds to the sill to block out all errant rays. By the time he returned, Aziraphale was already fast asleep again, curled up on his side under the covers.

Crowley climbed back in and wrapped himself around his…his boyfriend? Satan, he hoped so. They’d have to have that talk eventually, but for now, Crowley was content to hold him.

He drifted in and out of sleep himself for about half an hour, until he made the mistake of thinking back to their lovemaking only hours before. Which then woke up other, very insistent, parts of his anatomy. Parts that would require him to wake up the angel before long if they were to be satisfied.

He made it all of ten minutes before he began trailing soft kisses along Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his face again into the pillow. “I thought it was early.”

“It is later than it was, though still early enough,” Crowley said, continuing his trail of kisses. Then he shifted slightly to bring the full weight of his intention to bear.

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale said with a coy smile. “Well, I suppose we shall have to take care of that.”

Then he rolled over to gaze adoringly at Crowley, which was only fair, as Crowley was almost certain he had the sappiest of lovestruck looks on his own face at the moment. He was content to just look, he really was. But then Aziraphale stroked his jaw and leaned over to kiss him.

The kiss was sweet, a proper and appropriate good-morning kiss, until it dissolved by degrees into a much more demanding one. Crowley joyfully met him moan for moan as Aziraphale straddled his hips. And that was all either of them knew of the outside world for a number of hours.

By noon, though, Aziraphale insisted they get up and have breakfast, or more properly, lunch. So Crowley hauled himself out of bed and got dressed, even brushed his teeth and hair, all because his angel wanted crepes. He had a feeling that the remainder of his life would include some variation of Aziraphale harrying him out of bed to procure sustenance. He really couldn’t say he minded, though. Not in the least.

“We really must make some sort of decisions, my dear,” Aziraphale said, after they’d found an acceptable creperie in Covent Garden. “Beez returns in four days. We need to find a solution to our lack of housing.”

“Together?” Crowley asked, fiddling with his napkin and trying to affect an air of nonchalance he didn’t at all feel.

“Well…I don’t want to presume,” Aziraphale said, setting down his fork. Crowley hated it when he set down his fork. He should never have to set down his fork. Not like that. Not like he was preparing to be let down. 

Crowley immediately covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own. “I-I want to. I just…wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, a cautious version of his usual smile, and Crowley just couldn’t accept that.

“Honestly, angel, we’ve been living together for a month now. I’m not sure I’d know how to sleep anymore without you.”

And that did the trick. Aziraphale lit up like the sun.

“S’just as well that I wear dark glasses,” Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “I’d go blind from that smile without them.”

Aziraphale’s smile turned demure, and he looked down as if embarrassed in a pleased sort of way. It was officially Crowley’s second favorite expression of the angel’s, and Crowley resolved to make it happen again every chance he got.

“You’re distracting me,” Aziraphale said with fond exasperation. “We need to find a place to live, Crowley. We can’t trespass on Beez’s hospitality indefinitely. The joke shop is, of course, out of the question. And the bookshop is…not an ideal option either.”

“You pick, angel. Anywhere you are is where I’ll be. I don’t much care where it is. Besides, I probably won’t be able to contribute much to the rent until I find a job. All my savings went into keeping the shop alive.”

“I do not have much in the way of savings, I’m afraid, for the same reason. But I do have an excellent first edition of Les Amours pastorales de Daphnis et Chlo that I can sell to a collector who has been pestering me for it for some time. That should get us enough for a deposit on a flat in a decent neighborhood.”

“I can look for a retail job near wherever we set up.”

“You don’t want to reopen your joke shop?” Aziraphale asked, seeming downhearted about it.

“I can’t. No capital. No insurance money. And no collateral for a loan. I could peddle my arse on the street corner. That’s what Beez suggested I do.”

“Anthony J. Crowley, don’t you dare. Your arse belongs to me now.”

“Noted,” Crowley said, smiling like a lovesick idiot into his coffee.

And so the great search for a flat began. Took Aziraphale all of three days to find one in Barnsbury Park with a bathroom so tiny that it only fit half a bathtub, which was fine, as they really only had Aziraphale’s furniture to their names. 

Still, moving in had felt like a revelation. A place that was _theirs_. No mansion full of contestants jockeying to advance their own agendas. Just Crowley and Aziraphale, as if it had always been meant to be that way. And though his fussy boyfriend liked his tea things just so and had a tendency to get snippy when Crowley moved his books from one stack to another, Crowley couldn’t remember a time in his entire life when he was happier.

By then, the final episode of Dating in the Dark had aired. But since Aziraphale had never seen fit to get a television, and neither of them particularly cared how the show turned out, they didn’t bother watching. Crowley hoped in some small, petty part of his heart that Dagon hadn’t won. But he didn’t make the effort to find out.

Crowley found a job as a barista at a nearby coffee shop, and Aziraphale spent his time working to unload the bookshop. It broke Crowley’s heart watching Aziraphale sell his books to various collectors and lead tours for visitors interested in leasing the space after he’d moved out. 

“Are you _sure_ you want to do this, angel?” Crowley asked for the fiftieth time, roughly two weeks after they’d started cohabitating.

“Of course I don’t want to, dear. But I’d rather sell the lot and disband than have Gabriel burn it down. All those precious books!”

“But we haven’t heard anything from Gabriel or your family. Who’s to say they haven’t just written you off the way you have them?”

Aziraphale winced, causing Crowley to instantly regret his hasty words.

“You know what I mean, angel,” Crowley said gently, taking his hand and holding it between both of his. “I didn’t intend—”

“I know, darling. I don’t regret leaving, I just have all this…guilt, for lack of a better word.”

“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” Crowley insisted.

“I know, I know. But sometimes my heart reacts before my head intervenes.”

Crowley nodded, laying a quick kiss on Aziraphale’s hand. “Question still stands, though,” Crowley continued. “What if Gabriel really has given up and gone home? You could keep the bookshop.”

“It’s more than that, though. Even if Gabriel doesn’t try to burn it to ash, my mother might try to litigate me into submission. She’s done it to others before. Claim her monetary gifts to keep the bookshop afloat were really a loan that I have defaulted on. I could end up in court. And I’m not even sure she would be wrong.”

“Of course she would! If there was never any contract saying you had to pay her back, then she can’t suddenly claim you owe her money.”

“It was a contract, though, Crowley. An invisible chain binding me to my family, energetically if not by law. I need to be rid of them, their toxicity. I let them rule me for far too long. Better to pay them back every penny than give them an inch of leverage over me. And through me…you.”

“Angel, don’t worry about me. I may just be a lowly ex-joke shop owner, but I can absolutely take care of myself. I have a pretty mean right hook.”

“So I’ve been told,” Aziraphale said with a mischievous smile. “But I don’t worry about you. I protect you in whatever way I can, the way you protect me in so many ways. You saved me, you know.”

“You saved yourself,” Crowley argued.

“Well, you showed me the way.”

And Crowley didn’t feel much like arguing with that, so he kissed the angel instead.

* * *

Over the weeks that followed, Aziraphale continued to be amazed at every turn with how much joy there was in the world. Until now, he’d led a bleak existence indeed, weighed down with anxiety and self-doubt. But with Crowley, his world expanded, it colored itself in. The sound, the taste, everything was crisper, more vibrant, and echoing with happiness. And Aziraphale was soaking in every bit of it. 

Especially the sex. He reveled in the sex. There was more sex than he knew what to do with. The neighbors had even complained. _Twice_ . He wanted to feel badly about that, he really did, but he just couldn’t seem to make himself. The sex was _that_ good. And that frequent. And Aziraphale was very much a fan. Why, he would even characterize himself as fairly experienced now, which was saying something. They’d only been having sex for a month or so. Were it any other hobby, he would still consider himself a novice. But with as many hours of practice as they were putting in, well, he might be expert level by the end of the year.

The only fly in the honey was having to give up the bookshop. He knew it was the right decision, he absolutely believed it. He even felt good about it, most days. But whenever he had to sell a particularly loved volume, it pinched a little. And today…today, he’d had to return the keys of the now empty shop to the owner. That had been difficult. But it had been worth it to write a perfectly massive check to his mother and send it off in the mail with no return address on the envelope.

“How does it feel?” Crowley asked, taking Aziraphale’s hand as he always seemed to do when he wanted to talk about feelings. Aziraphale always let him, too, because he quite simply loved holding Crowley’s hand.

They were strolling through St. James’s park on a lovely early autumn day. Clouds dotted the sky overhead and there was a slight chill to the air that smelled like apples and sharpened pencils.

Aziraphale assessed his emotions and found them still void of regret.

“I feel…lighter,” he said, rubbing his thumb comfortingly on the back of Crowley’s hand. “I know you are concerned, but I am happy with my decision. I will find work as a clerk somewhere, and we will carry on with nothing holding us back.”

“I love you,” Crowley said, as he did every day.

“I love you, too, dear,” Aziraphale replied, as he did every day as well.

As they rounded a bend in the path, they spotted a gaggle of reporters consulting notes and setting up cameras. 

“Huh,” said Crowley, automatically steering them off the path to go around. “Wonder what they’re here for.”

Then one of the reporters happened to look up and see them.

“There they are!” he shouted to his cameraman, who hoisted the heavy looking device to his shoulder as they both proceeded towards Aziraphale and Crowley. And they weren’t the only ones. The entire group of thirty or so newspeople descended on Aziraphale and Crowley all at once, peppering them with questions that Aziraphale could barely even make out through the cacophony. 

“Oy! One at a time!” Crowley shouted into the fray. “What the Hell do you want?”

“What will you do with all the money?” one reporter with a fedora asked.

“What money?” Crowley fired back.

“The half a million quid.”

Aziraphale blinked at them all in confusion until realization dawned. “Oh! You must be misinformed. No, we didn’t win the Dating in the Dark competition. We were disqualified. Well, we disqualified ourselves.”

The reporters stared at him like a flock of particularly dense pigeons.

“I’m sure if you contact the show, they will set the record straight,” Aziraphale continued, somewhat haltingly, as none of them seemed to be twigging to his explanation.

“This isn’t about the competition, angel,” Crowley said softly, pulling Aziraphale closer and slinging a protective arm across his back. “The winners were announced over a month ago. This is something else.”

“You mean…” said a young reporter with a lip ring. “You don’t know?”

“Know what, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, as perplexed as ever.

The young person scrolled to something on a mobile device and handed it to Aziraphale. He angled it so Crowley could read as well.

It was a website with the words FundsForFriends in green letters at the top. Beneath it was a picture of himself and Crowley on the veranda, Crowley kneeling in front of Aziraphale. It must have been a screen capture from the show. Good lord, had they aired that confession? Aziraphale shuddered at the idea of anyone seeing him reject Crowley, at the idea that he’d ever rejected Crowley in the first place.

“What the Hell?” Crowley breathed, pushing his glasses up into his hair. That meant whatever it was was serious. “Are you reading this, angel?”

“I-I…no. Is it bad?”

“Read it,” he said severely, pushing the mobile more fully into Aziraphale’s hands.

So Aziraphale obeyed.

**Dating Under the Radar**

Now that _Dating in the Dark_ has ended and we’ve all seen the fallout results, it’s time to make sure that our _real_ favorite couple isn’t left out in the cold. No offense to Anathema and Newt! Their dramatic win was well deserved. But we know who the real winners _should_ have been, don’t we? And now we need to do our part to make sure they know how much we love them. Click the button below to donate however much you can. No amount is too small! With all of us pulling together, Britain can show these two ineffable lovebirds that love really does conquer all.

And then a number underneath it in bright blue letters stood out beneath the copy: £ **517,642.96**

Aziraphale gasped and nearly dropped the mobile, then fumbled it back to its owner in haste, as if it might bite him.

“Goodness gracious me,” he said, feeling faint.

“So now that you know,” a third reporter piped up. “What are you feeling right now?”

“I-I-I couldn’t say,” Aziraphale stuttered. “Overwhelmed. Is that even legal?”

“It isn’t _illegal_ ,” Crowley said, looking thoughtful.

“You can’t be seriously considering accepting this, Crowley,” Aziraphale chastised him. “We have no right to that money, any more than I did my family’s.”

“It’s supposed to be a _gift_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley said gently. “You are aware of the concept of gifts, yeah?”

“It’s-it’s more than a gift, it’s a life-altering amount of money. Not to mention, none of the organizers has even approached us about any of this. Perhaps it is a hoax.”

“It’s not a hoax,” said a familiar voice, and Tracy stepped out from behind the crowd. How had Aziraphale not noticed her before? 

“Tracy? Oh my goodness! It’s wonderful to see you,” Aziraphale said, hurrying forward and kissing her on the cheek. “How are you?”

“I am well, love, very well,” she said, kissing his cheek as well. Then she took his arm and led him back towards Crowley. “Anyway, it’s real, my loves. The people of Britain set up a fund, and they want to give it to you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they tasked me with passing on the check, you know,” she said with a brilliant smile. “They wanted it to come from someone you’d trust. So, there you are.”

She pulled out a small folded paper and handed it to Crowley. Then she hugged each of them close and swept to the side with a radiant smile, looping her arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and posing for the cameras.

Crowley opened the paper and swayed as if faint himself. “It’s a literal check, angel. I can’t believe this is happening.”

He passed the check to Aziraphale, who shook his head in wonder. “You know what this means,” he said, sounding breathless.

“We can reopen our shops.”

“Not _shops_ , dear. Shop. Just one,” Aziraphale said, then interlaced his fingers with Crowley’s, beaming at him. “It will be our shop together.”

“Crowley and Fell’s Joke and Book Shop?” he said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand so tight it almost hurt.

“We’ll work on the name.”

And as they answered questions and posed once again for the media, Aziraphale turned to Crowley and asked,

“Do you think this might be what she intended all along?”

“Who?”

Aziraphale nodded towards one of the cameras with a smile, though his answer was for Crowley. 

“Agnes Nutter, the showrunner,” he said.

Crowley snorted. “Nahhh….” But then he shifted his weight to the other foot, seeming lost in thought for a moment. “Well, maybe.”

Then he drew closer to Aziraphale, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling his hair the way he liked to do, and said, “Money or no money, I won that competition.”

And it was no surprise to either of them the next morning when _that_ was the picture that appeared on the first page of the daily newspaper under the headline “Britain’s Favorite Couple.”


	12. Retrospective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! The very last episode of _Dating in the Dark_. We've brought all the contestants back, six months after the end of the show, for an in-depth interview about how everything went down, and what they've been up to since. There are still a few surprises left in store, so don't miss this final chance to hear from your favorite couples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my beloved teammates and talented artists [Scrumptious_Bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrumptious_Bastard/pseuds/Scrumptious_Bastard) and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/). I am so grateful you chose my story and portrayed it with such love and skill. This has been a treat of an experience, start to finish, and I am _so glad_ we've met and come to be friends. Team Matchmakers forever!!
> 
> Also, eternal and sublime thanks to my amazing beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk/works?fandom_id=27251507). This story is so much closer to what I envisioned, because they pushed me to dig deeper, to find the way the story truly wanted to be told. I am so grateful to have such an awesome beta who GETS ME even better than I do sometimes.
> 
> I also have to thank the [Do It With Style Events](https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/) crew--both the mods for organizing the event, and the server denizens for supporting me. This fic would literally not exist without them. Also, writers? If you're not part of discord server yet, GET THEE TO A SERVER. Sprinting sessions and general bonding with server buddies kept me motivated to finish and to do my best work. If you want, check out the [DIWS server](https://discord.com/invite/rAKndEQ). As of this writing, it's open to new members, and they're just about to tee up a new event, so now is a good time!
> 
> And last but CERTAINLY not least is thanks to all of you who are reading and kudos-ing and commenting. You guys give me _so much_ will to keep going, and sometimes even the foresight to tweak chapters before I publish them to address things I hadn't considered before. This whole experience has been absolutely affirming and wonderful and I CANNOT thank you enough. <333333

SANDALPHON: Welcome to our six-month retrospective. Let’s check in with our contestants and find out what went well, what went wrong, and how the experiment changed their lives. Each couple is going to tell us their story in their own words, starting with Michael and Ligur. Tell us what happened on that final fateful day.

MICHAEL: It wasn’t my fault. I did nothing wrong.

LIGUR: Yeah, you did, though. Fell for the oldest trick in the book. You actually believed Dagon, the gossiping trollop, when she insinuated that your boyfriend was cheating on you.

MICHAEL: That is not the oldest trick in the book, first of all. Second of all, why wouldn’t I believe her? She was beyond insinuating. She had details! Dates, locations, words you’d said. Words that sounded very much like you.

LIGUR: And how could she have known all that, eh? Hastur made it up. Told her what to say so you’d ditch me and we’d lose the top spot. Classic shakedown. Can’t believe it actually worked.

DAGON: Excuse me. I didn’t do anything of the sort! And you can’t prove that I did.

LIGUR: I think the footage of you explicitly plotting with Hastur during one of your dates proves it well enough.

DAGON: That wasn’t about you, that was about Pillsbury Dough-boy. 

SANDALPHON: Dagon, you’ll have your chance. Let’s go back to you, Michael. Tell us what happened.

MICHAEL: I was minding my own business, waiting to be let into the room to meet Ligur in person, and Dagon sidles up to me and starts pouring poison into my ear about how Ligur has been seen sneaking off the premises for assignations with an ex-girlfriend. She was too thorough. She knew too much.

LIGUR: And you believed her over me. You came in ready for battle. Nearly eviscerated me with your deranged ranting.

MICHAEL: I still believe her over you. And if me expressing my displeasure over being betrayed was so difficult for you, we would never have worked as a couple anyway.

LIGUR: Well, it wasn’t true! How could I have snuck off as many times as Dagon claimed without everyone finding out?

MICHAEL: Are you single now? 

LIGUR: (looking shifty) (mumbling)

MICHAEL: What was that?

LIGUR: No. I’m with Bernice. 

MICHAEL: The conveniently no-longer-ex ex.

LIGUR: The point is, the prize was ours once flash-dandy disqualified himself, and you had to go and muck it all up.

MICHAEL: _I_ didn’t muck it up. _You_ did, you insufferable _bleep bleep_.

SANDALPHON: Alright! Thank you Michael and Ligur. Dagon? Would you care to tell us about your experience on the show?

DAGON: Those two think they have it so hard? At least they actually split as a couple. Hastur and I were framed by the idiots editing the footage. Every show has to have a villain, right? And when you can’t find one, make one up! 

HASTUR: You tell, ‘em, Dag.

DAGON: Just because Hastur and I had a few strategy sessions, doesn’t mean we were out to sabotage anybody. But the way the show editors spliced our conversations together for the episodes made us look like we were only in it for the money. That's why we tanked in viewer votes on the last episode. Stupid viewers fell for that drivel. Our voting percentages went down 73% in the space of a single week!

HASTUR: Yeah, and let’s not overlook the blatant _cheating_ that went on all around us. First with the cotton-haired tosser buying his way onto the show. Then the producers breaking their _own rules_ to allow a match that had been disqualified to win the lot! Who’s running this thing? Anarchists?

SANDALPHON: There was nothing in the rules stipulating that a disqualified couple couldn’t propose—only that they couldn’t add each other to their leaderboards. The assumption was that a couple who couldn’t date wouldn’t win the hearts of the viewers, so the likelihood of them winning was slim to none. But we can’t order people to not propose to or marry the person they want to. 

HASTUR: That’s just _splitting hairs_ , and besides, if that were the case, then the nancy boys could have won. You disqualified _them_.

SANDALPHON: (sighing) They disqualified themselves by canceling their proposals to their chosen matches. Anathema made no proposal, so she wasn’t disqualified. Same with Tracy. Same with Newt.

DAGON: Bull- _bleep_.

SANDALPHON: And are you and Hastur still together?

DAGON: (hesitating) No.

SANDALPHON: Then there you are. The show rewards contestants who are actually intending to stay together.

DAGON: You don’t know—

SANDALPHON: (holding up a hand) You bring up a good point, though. Let’s turn to Anathema and Newt. Tell us first and foremost: Are you still together?

ANATHEMA: (turning a besotted look on Newt) We are. (Newt smiles and kisses her hand)

SANDALPHON: Now, we’ve all seen the dramatic clip of Newt storming into the room after Crowley left and sweeping you off your feet (clip plays in the background). But give us some insight into the backstory. You were very clever with your sneaking around.

ANATHEMA: After Newt and I were disqualified as a couple, I kept seeing these small lizards everywhere I looked. For at least the first week. One was even in my breakfast bowl when I went to pour in my hemp and flax granola. Obviously, the universe was giving me a sign to not let him go.

NEWT: And then I was pacing along the hedge one day—I think it was the Wednesday after the first week’s results came out—and Anathema called out to me. Somehow she just knew it was me. 

ANATHEMA: It’s not like it was witchcraft. I heard you talking to yourself, and of course, I remembered your voice from our conversation. 

NEWT: Anyway, we made a plan to meet every day, and then we increased it to twice a day. Whenever we could get away. It was much more difficult than I’d imagined, listening to her walk away just before we were all to leave for the wedding venue. 

ANATHEMA: It worked out alright, though.

NEWT: Just as you said it would.

DAGON: Gross. Just stop, will you? You’re turning my stomach.

SANDALPHON: Let’s move on to our singletons for a bit. Uriel, how are you faring after your stint on the show?

URIEL: Amazingly well, thank you very much.

SANDALPHON: Are you seeing anyone special?

URIEL: I’ve decided love isn’t for me. I’m much happier on Tinder. No annoying traits you have to put up with in order to get laid. 

SANDALPHON: (coughing) Let’s keep it family friendly, shall we? So tell us, what did you walk away with from the show? 

URIEL: Fat lot of nothing, actually.

SANDALPHON: I meant, what did you learn?

URIEL: I learned that love is pointless, and this show is a trash program designed to weaken society by pandering to the basest desires of the masses.

SANDALPHON: Well… I suppose we are all entitled to our opinions. And speaking of opinions, what is yours, Tracy? How do you feel about your time on the show?

TRACY: Oh, it was lovely. 

SANDALPHON: … And?

TRACY: Well, our kitchen, as you know, was stocked with the most wonderful darjeeling, and the fresh local milk was to die—

SANDALPHON: I meant about the show itself, ma’am.

TRACY: Oh, right. Well, I did foresee the outcome, you know. I am very spiritually attuned. 

SANDALPHON: You’re saying that you knew all along that your beau would end up choosing someone else?

TRACY: Of course, love. Why do you think I chose him?

SANDALPHON: (looking confused) I think we might be talking about two different things.

TRACY: Not at all. I couldn’t have him distracted from his true life partner with all this marriage nonsense. I took up a spot to help keep him focused. 

SANDALPHON: Are you serious?

TRACY: I am rarely serious, dear. Anyway, it was all part of Agnes’s plan.

SANDALPHON: (shocked) Agnes the show runner?

TRACY: The very same. She came to me one day with a premonition that if we didn’t get these two together, it’d be the end of the world. And who am I to turn away a friend when she asks me to help stop an apocalypse? Not like it’s hard to pretend to enter a dating contest and shake things up a little.

SANDALPHON: (shocked further) You mean, you weren’t even looking for a husband?

TRACY: That’s silly (slaps Sandalphon playfully on the wrist). Why would I need a husband when I’m already married?

SANDALPHON: (shocked into silence)

TRACY: (turns to Aziraphale and Crowley) I think the more interesting questions are for you two.

AZIRAPHALE: Er...yes?

TRACY: First of all, whatever happened to your miscreant brother Gabriel? Enquiring minds want to know.

AZIRAPHALE: After the finale aired--which, as you know, showed secret camera footage of Gabriel’s confession--the arson investigator brought him in for questioning. And, well…Gabriel is too proud and entitled not to think himself completely justified in his actions at all times.

CROWLEY: The bugger folded like the cheap suit he is. And after the first question, no doubt.

AZIRAPHALE: (side-eyes Crowley) _Anyway_ , after his trial, he was remanded to Pentonville, and my family has left us blissfully alone ever since.

TRACY: Excellent news. I’ve never been so excited to see such an unenlightened bag of bogwater get his comeuppance. 

AZIRAPHALE: (clears his throat) Ah, did you have another question, my dear?

TRACY: (nodding) Tell us all what did you do with the money you received from the fund.

CROWLEY: _A.Z. Fell and Crowley’s Books and Novelties!_ Tickle your funny bone and nourish your brain, all in one convenient location. Free demonstrations and author readings every Saturday afternoon and evening, respectively.

AZIRAPHALE: I haven’t rebuilt my entire collection as yet, but I’m getting there. And Beez, our business partner, is helping me tweak my business model so I can hold onto the works I care about and still thrive as a business.

TRACY: Sounds divine.

AZIRAPHALE: And I should mention that we also started a foundation for the children’s hospital, to make life a bit more fun for the children. We bring in entertainers to amuse the patients, decorators to update the space with more child-friendly scenery, art tutors, and more, all under the supervision of the medical professionals, of course.

TRACY: Really? A foundation, you say? How very heroic of you.

CROWLEY: Well, it isn’t _all_ selfless. Turns out our angel here fancies himself something of a magician, from time to time.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, it was simply delightful performing for the children! One of my tricks almost even worked. And of course, Crowley acted as my lovely mascot-attired assistant.

TRACY: And how’s coupledom treating you overall?

AZIRAPHALE: (blushing) Well, it is a bit of an adjustment, naturally, but every day that goes by makes my life before Crowley hazier and less distinct in my memory, and for that, I am beyond grateful. I may have lost what I spent my life desperately holding onto, but I’ve found so much more.

CROWLEY: You old softy. 

AZIRAPHALE: You don’t feel the same way, dear?

CROWLEY: Well, you do have a tendency to leave partially drunk cups of tea all over the flat. And you get so absorbed in reading when you find a book you particularly like that it’s difficult to roust you, even for meal times. 

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, please. If we want to get into details, I can certainly tell them all about your penchant for loud—

CROWLEY: (squawking) That is quite enough of that, angel.

AZIRAPHALE: I was only going to say ‘music,’ dear. What did you think I was going to say?

CROWLEY: Never mind. The point is...er...dolphins. Big brains, dolphins. That was our first full conversation, remember?

AZIRAPHALE: (chuckling) How could I forget?

TRACY: Aren’t you two just a treat? (glancing at Sandalphon) I fear I may have broken our host. I suppose we should wrap it up for the evening, yes? I have a seance to prepare for.

CROWLEY: I do have a question for you, Tracy.

TRACY: Of course, love. Fire away.

CROWLEY: What was the point of doing the show? Why was _that_ your Great Plan?

TRACY: Well, it’s down to free will, isn’t it? It had to be your choice to take the apple from the tree.

DAGON: Tree? What tree? What do apples have to do with anything?

MICHAEL: Shut up, Dagon.

TRACY: Besides, it was a Hell of a lot of fun. (winks)

CROWLEY: (snorts) For you, maybe. 

AZIRAPHALE: (softly) But it was worth it, right?

CROWLEY: (looking at Aziraphale) Yeah (smiles at him) …. Yeah, it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo NOW WHAT??? A couple of things:
> 
> (1) Please feel free to make of this what you will! If you're inspired to podfic, illustrate, animate, video edit, translate, create a playlist, write related fic, whatever it is! Absolutely feel free to do so. In fact, if someone wanted to actually write transcripts of the actual episodes of the show, or meta posts from the fans perspective, I would totally just explode from joy. Just let me know in the comments ([or message me on tumblr](https://miraworos.tumblr.com/)) so I can squee about it from the top of all the mountains. <333
> 
> (2) I am still writing GO fanfic! Honestly, I can't imagine a time in which I wouldn't be writing GO fanfic. If you want to check out all the stuff I've already written, [click here to go to my Works page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos/works). It's almost all GO (except for one epic Lotura fic from two years ago).
> 
> If you want another multichaptered adventure, but this time canon-compliant, check out my post-canon (completed) fic [an echo sharp and strange](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969585/chapters/49860608) in which Crowley and Aziraphale have to take on a united Heaven and Hell to save the world...again...and even scarier, finally admit to their feelings for each other.
> 
> If you want another human-AU multichaptered adventure, but this time historical, check out my Indiana Jones-ish (not yet completed) fic [Azira Fell and the Apocalypse Scroll](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286163/chapters/55768141) in which Azira is an Egyptologist in the 1940s and Crowley is his street-savvy guide and bodyguard while they (and their assistants) race against Lucifer's gang of villains for a weapon that could potentially end the world.
> 
> If you want something shorter and lighter, check out my collection of [one-shots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos/works), of which there are quite a few.
> 
> (3) If you liked this story, please tell your GO-loving friends about it! An author's reach can be pretty limited, and you getting the word out is a bigger help than you think. I'll even save you the annoying step of having to go back to the first chapter to copy the link. Simply right click [on this link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091440/chapters/60781840) and select Copy Link Address. Then go to your social media platform of choice and post about it!
> 
> (4) Come squee with me about all the ineffable insanity on [tumblr](https://miraworos.tumblr.com/) or on discord (miraworos#2148) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/MiraWoros)! The best part about fandom for me is making new friends. :-D
> 
> Thanks again for coming along with me on this wacky adventure!!! I appreciate it more than you know.
> 
> *group glomp*
> 
> Mira


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